Fragmented
by Starry Bright Light
Summary: After Jack's death, Alex had little direction in his life. Paranoia and unease rule his life. He can trust no one—even when they pretend to have his best interests in mind. And, after nearly six months… it appears that things might finally be settling down. Yet, with Alex, peace is an impossibility—because someone is always looking for him.
1. Abduction

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. If I did, you wouldn't have had to wait so long for me to post a new story..._**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 1: Abduction_**

* * *

The last several months had been months of difficult adjusting, in Alex's opinion. Originally, he had had no desire to return to the UK, to the place where normalcy used to reign supreme. However, when the only other option had been to go stay with the Pleasure's in California… he liked to think that he had taken the lesser of two evils, for all parties concerned. He knew better then to try to pretend that he could ever fit in with a normal, happy family. There were too many scars, too many deep seated issues that he wasn't even close to dealing with—but he only admitted these to himself, in the quiet of his own place. Admitting that to anyone else would only bring down more problems upon his head.

Perhaps one of the factors that irked him the most though, was the fact that the conditions of his return to the UK had been formed and made with very little input from him. It was just more of his life decided for him. Yet, although he was less than pleased with the outcome, he knew that it was his own fault. For the first several weeks following _her_ death—and his mind shied away from thinking about it even now—he had been catatonic. Unresponsive to the world. There had been talk for a while—a very _short_ while—about moving him to a rehabilitative home permanently, if he hadn't snapped out of it.

Therefore, he had no one to blame but himself for his current situation.

Jones, who was a better boss than Blunt by far, had somehow unearthed characteristics that should have been dead and gone considering her official position. _Caring, understanding,_ and he shuddered, just thinking of it, a strange sort of _concern_. That hadn't stopped her from being the ringleader in the circus he called his life now.

She had presented it as a _guardianship arrangement_ , a rarely used government initiative from several years' back, which provided him with legal backing to his status. Different from emancipation, in that he wasn't recognized as an adult and wasn't required to supply all of his funding, but allowed him to live separately from a designated guardian. Meaning, he was able to live by himself—which was exactly what he wanted. In exchange for this agreement though, Jones had laid down the law. She had placed severe restrictions on his freedom and required him to go back to school.

What he had intended to do instead of school, he wasn't sure, but going back had never seemed like a possibility. He had been pulled so far from the norms that… slipping back into the schoolboy lifestyle was almost incomprehensible. However, Jones had insisted. Thankfully, she had arranged things so he was in a different school. He _was_ repeating a year though. No argument there, unfortunately. He had missed so many months with sporadic attendance in between; there was no way he could have even dreamed of catching up.

It didn't help that his brain didn't _want_ to cooperate with the process of _in-school_ learning anymore. There were too may sounds and distractions around him, for him to focus properly. Jones had gone so far as to get him special testing requirements, because after two months it became clear that he _would_ fail all his classes again, despite knowing the information.

His classmates thought he was weird, his teachers knew there was something funny about him, and just the thought of having someone sitting behind him was enough to send tingles of unease up his spine. That was one that his therapist liked to try to touch on… though how they got their information, he wasn't sure.

Which brought him back to where he was at the moment. In his therapist's office for the third—and hopefully last—time that week. He stared at the wrinkles on his knuckles, ignoring the faint scars on the backs of his hands, and tried not to squirm under the gaze of his MI6 assigned therapist. Jones had determined that no matter what location he chose—though his options by then had been dwindling rapidly—he was going to receive psychological counseling. Everything hinged on it. An individual flat with regular school attendance and therapy—or a spot within a residential living facility where someone would dictate his every move.

That threat was still hanging over his head, if his therapist determined that he wasn't cooperating.

The silence stretched out, until Alex felt like his nerves were about to snap. After changing therapists for the third time, Jones seemed to have finally found someone who was capable of out waiting him. It was unnerving, and with each session, he knew he was getting closer and closer to cracking. To just pouring out _anything_ to fill the silence that came from someone just staring at him.

He wanted to squirm, to move, to do something, anything to get out of the limelight of his therapist's gaze. But he held himself in check, carefully tensing each muscle, surreptitiously categorizing and triaging every sound and rustle of movement for any signs of danger. He knew what he was doing. He knew most would consider it unhealthy. For him, it was just life.

"I don't know what you expect me to do Alex." The therapist let out a soft sigh, finally breaking the silence. His muscles relaxed imperceptibly, the session was almost over. "I don't want to threaten you, but Mrs. Jones made it clear that you are rapidly reaching your last chance. If you don't start showing signs of improvement, or at least _something_ , this isn't going to work."

Silence again…

It wasn't silent in his head though. Those words were the ones that haunted him from session to session. The thought that one person could have so much power over his life. One wrong move—or lack of move—and Mrs. Jones would take all the paltry freedoms she allowed him. It wasn't his fault though. He had never _wanted_ anything to do with the therapists. They would just try to tell him that things _really_ weren't that bad. That he couldn't be so traumatized, because he was here, right? If he just _tried,_ things could be normal again.

 _That nothing had ever happened._

He knew it was all lies though. His ghosts— either in person or in his mind, would always haunt him. His nightmares were enough evidence of that. And a small part of his brain suggested that he deserved the nightmares. He had killed people. It was the least amount of penance he could offer for his destruction and selfishness. That was what it boiled down to, after all. _She_ never would have died if he had turned _them_ down in the beginning. If he hadn't been selfish in the beginning.

The therapists, vultures that they were, had all immediately latched onto the fact that he had nightmares, was paranoid about anyone sneaking up on him, and could only somewhat function within general society. They said that that was all evidence that he needed to change things. They claimed that _he_ had the power to change things.

What they didn't understand was that everything was for a reason. The nightmares were penance. The paranoia was the only thing keeping him alive since people _still_ wanted him dead. And general society was overrated, because _no one_ could ever relate to what he had been forced through.

The children at school—because such naïve students might as well have been decades younger than him—were wary of him. Everyone stayed away from ' _that creepy Rider kid,_ ' perhaps because they knew instinctively that he was more dangerous than the thugs behind the shops were. Everyone around him got hurt or killed.

No one except the most cold-hearted of war veterans would ever understand—and even then, he was only a _kid_.

It made him different.

Unique.

 _Isolated._

A clock behind him chimed out the hour, startling him, but the flinch was smothered under his tense muscles. It didn't matter though. The therapist always knew. Even after nearly two months, he had yet to get used to it. It startled him every time, and he knew if he glanced up at just the right moment he would see the pitying expression on the therapist's face. There was _always_ one.

The only good thing about the clock was that it told him precisely when his session was over. He grabbed his backpack from beside the chair, and stood up to stalk out of the room. He was halfway out the door, before the therapist's voice called after him.

"Try not to be so late next week, Alex. Mrs. Jones _is_ paying attention."

Alex scowled and left without any sign that he had heard. The meddling busybody could go stick her nose somewhere where it actually mattered. The indignity of the situation only served to send his mood even lower. He was essentially a prisoner that was allowed to roam the streets—while letting his wardens know exactly where he would be at all times.

Muttering indignant curses under his breath, he pressed the button on his mobile that informed his watchdogs that he was returning to the only place that he cared a whit about. His flat.

* * *

The problem with repeating a year—one that included such sporadic attendance—meant that there were things he remembered very clearly and things that… he had long since forgotten. While he had once been at the top of his maths class, now, he was nearing the bottom. Between his in-class concentration being nearly nonexistent and his teacher using an _abnormal_ amount of Greek letters in the lessons, teaching himself was a struggle—and only partially accomplished thanks to more than a dozen online tutoring sites. Perhaps the most annoying part of it all was that he remembered learning bits and pieces of it at one point, but not enough to put all together coherently.

The latest batch of returned homework, full of red marks, included a note that told him he needed extra tutoring and that a conversation with his guardian was likely in the future. With a resigned sigh—he didn't want to know where a conversation like that would get him—he decided that it was pointless to beat his head with something he was never going to learn anyway.

A long time ago, he had assumed that as soon as he was away from the spying world, everything would go back to normal. Classes would pick up like usual. Homework would fall into line, unquestioning. _Friends_ would make sure that his life wasn't only studying all the time. That was, of course, complete baloney. He knew better now than to expect a _normal_ , and knew that there would never be.

For now, he had to get through and make it work. Somehow.

He had no illusion that MI6's influence on his life would just disappear when he reached the age of majority. If anything, it would just get worse from there on out. They had _created_ him, so he was their problem. If his mental status wasn't acceptable by that point, he highly doubted that they would let him loose on the population. Too high of a security risk. So, they would just give him a home with even higher security—and not a single person would miss him.

The whistling of his kettle alerted him to the fact that he had been staring at the kitchen tiles for far too long again, once again wasting precious time on pointless introspection. Of course, if his therapist knew about it, they would probably say that it was a good thing he was even thinking about the future. Desire for anything was always good in their eyes. Though… the hopeless tense to his thoughts probably wouldn't be considered a positive sign.

He grabbed a mug off the counter, cutting off his thoughts mid train, and poured a cup of tea, before returning to the table that had all of his coursework for the weekend laid out. Six months in, and it felt as if he were still playing the catch-up game. It shouldn't have taken up _all_ of his time, but his inability to concentrate well in class, made it so that he had to reteach himself nearly everything.

A small mocking part of his brain wondered what else he would have to do if it weren't for the coursework. It wasn't as if he had any friends at the school. There were no wild parties to attend—probably not even any he could crash. Definitely no girls that he would take out to dinner... He suspected that if it weren't for the coursework, he would spend _all_ the time with his mind in an endless loop of self-incrimination.

Not. Going. Down. _That_. Road…

With an annoyed scowl at the veer in his thoughts, he turned to the only coursework that he somewhat enjoyed and found useful. Spanish.

Of course, it was dreadfully easy, but that didn't matter. At least he could _do it_.

* * *

It was well past midnight when he resurfaced from his studying long enough to find something to eat. As long as he went to bed by two, he would get about five hours to sleep—provided the nightmares weren't too bad. One therapist had tried telling him that sleeping more would help his concentration in class, but he doubted it. It wasn't a lack of sleep that distracted him; it was every little creak in the room. Every time another student twitched or fidgeting, drummed their fingers on their desk, or did _something_ immensely distracting. In a class full of unruly fifteen year old's—children—there were far too many opportunities for distraction.

 _Like the sound of a door opening._

Alex's head snapped up, taking in the slight shift in atmosphere. If there was one thing he knew, it was the sound of his own flat. It was in an area where the neighbors were old enough that they didn't bother him and he didn't bother them. No one asked questions, and since most went to bed long before nine, _any_ out of place sound was a cause for alarm. Especially late at night.

Supper forgotten, he cautiously inched away from the counter and hall. It wasn't a loud sound, but rather, something that had penetrated the stillness that he was used to having. There were no unnecessary sounds within his flat, so he knew when something was out of place.

The door brushed against something. _Or maybe something brushed against the door…?_

He inched away, placing his feet carefully, but without thought. He knew exactly where the creaks were in the flooring. He had put them there himself. Paranoia certainly had its benefits at times. Like when someone chose the wrong flat to break into…

He held his breath as he grabbed the combat knife off the table, where he had left it after cleaning it earlier in the evening. It was the only weapon that MI6 allowed him to have, claiming that guns were too dangerous. Though he wished dearly for a gun—after all, in a knife and gun fight, knives tended to lose—he was grateful for the little they allowed him to have. With his one form of protection, he backed carefully toward his bedroom, keeping his eyes and ears open for any more irregular sounds.

The slightest click told him that the door had latched again—so there was someone somewhere—but he had no way of knowing if anyone had actually come in, or how many. He swallowed hard, and kept inching his way to the safety of the bedroom. They would have to trigger one of his warning signals. Then he could escape. They wouldn't know what was coming.

The slightest whisper of sound was the only warning he had that anyone was nearby, and the inexplicable tripping of his own feet quickly followed it, as he tried to locate the sound. He fell with a hard thud and only had seconds to realize that _someone_ was behind him. _Right_ behind him.

He tried to scramble away, but wasn't fast enough. Something hit him between the shoulder blades, knocking him back to the ground, and he felt the world around him go distinctly gray.

 _Not… going to…_

He shook his head, trying to break free of the momentary fog, and reached blindly for anything, anyone. He grabbed the leg of his attacker and pulled him down to his own level, fumbling for the upper hand. It was with pure desperation that he struck out with the knife. As soon as a gun came into play, he had no hope. But for now…

It was almost too easy. The knife sunk in flesh and Alex got his momentary reprise.

"What the hell do you want?" He was attempting to cover up the fact that he had been completely blindsided by this attack. He knew he had to get out, but he wanted _answers._

"All they've ever wanted, Rider. You _belong_ to them. You're theirs." The man was surprisingly coherent for someone who just had a knife shoved into his stomach. Though he didn't appear to be attempting to come closer. "You can run, but you can't hide. SCORPIA will have you on their side."

 _SCORPIA._

Alex blanched. It had only been several months. Jones had _promised._

This was why he didn't trust anyone. They couldn't even pretend to keep him safe.

Alex bolted. No more questions needed answered. He was weaponless and without any reliable way to contact MI6. His only hope was that they paid attention to the alarms strung up around his flat. He took nothing, just raced to the bedroom and the only window in the flat. He forcefully jammed it up all the way to the top, hoping it would be enough to trigger all the sensors they had placed.

His only hope of refuge before help arrived— _if_ help arrived—would be in the woods that butted up against the backside of the flat complex. Of course, that meant getting down from his third story flat… but he had a plan for that.

Paranoia had its advantages, in that he had planned for a plethora of doomsday scenarios. However, hadn't the entire purpose of this exercise been to teach him that there wasn't anything to fear in the world anymore? Hadn't that been what Jones wanted with him essentially playing house?

He shook the thoughts off and hardly thought twice as he leapt out of the window and onto the roof below. It was only an eight-foot drop. He could almost manage that in his sleep.

Of course, nothing could go as planned. That would be too _easy_. He grumbled at his luck as he hit the roof at a particularly wrong angle. Not only did it send a twinge of pain up his ankle, but also alerted anyone in the vicinity that something _strange_ was happening. And if that man had backup…

After a cursory glance, to be sure that it was nothing more than a sprain— _oh, it wasn't going to be fun to run, but at least it wasn't broken_ —he rolled over the edge of the last floor and caught the lattice framework that the owners thought made the building look _pretty_. It provided him with a simple escape route though, so he wasn't complaining.

He reached the bottom without any more problems, and paused to take in his surroundings. It was a dark night—starless, moonless, and with a burnt out street lamp to add to the ambiance. The prefect night for an ambush. Taking in a careful breath, he crept across the empty grass, heading for the safety of the forest. It wasn't the first time he had put his escape plan into action—but the other times it had just been a test. There hadn't actually been anyone in the forest after him.

Now there was.

He was halfway across when he heard the crunch of leaves that told him he wasn't alone anymore. Alex bolted, ignoring the pain of annoyance in his ankle, concentrating on getting away. If he just made it to the forest… he had no doubt in his ability to evade once within that protection. There he would have size and familiarity on his side.

But he was too slow.

Someone grabbed him around the neck with an iron grip, and despite his fighting, kicking, and struggling; he was no match for the sheer strength. His panic kicked into a higher notch, starting to send any reason and strategy out of his mind.

He wanted the hands gone.

He had nothing.

Struggling and clawing at the hands only served to tighten the grip. The air was gone. He could only last so long.

 _No air…_

He grabbed at anything he could get under his fingertips, but the efforts were quickly becoming too much.

"We've got you Rider."

The grip on his neck was replaced with a sudden sharp prick, but he couldn't fight as his body struggled to pull in the air once again. And the drugs were already pulling him down.

 _Waking up is going to suck…_

* * *

 ** _A/N: Hello… Back again… *offers new story as peace offering* It's been a while, but I'm back for a while now! This will be another long one, so please, read and review, then let me know what you think. Fair warning, there may be up to two weeks between chapter updates, as I am still a student and am still working out the kinks in this story. But, it will be_** ** _FINISHED_** ** _. Promise._**

 ** _Until next time!_**

 ** _S.B.L._**

 ** _*As far as I know, the_ guardianship arrangement _is a completely made up term and has no actual status in real life._**


	2. Captive

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. If I did, he would have experienced much more realistic effects of his adventures._**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 2: Captive_**

* * *

Where had it all gone wrong?

Where had the realm of fantasy and horror stories decided to combine to turn nightmares into reality?

Who had he pissed off so royally to get placed into this kind of situation?

It was the stuff of the horror stories that the veterans would tell the newbies, to scare them about RTI – only RIT was just that. _A training experience._ It was something to get them ready for the _what-if_ scenarios of their job.

But this… this was the _real thing_ , apparently. And this… this was so completely different from anything they had ever trained him for. No matter how many hours he might have had in training, none of it could have prepared him for _this_. Something so completely off script that… it was hard to understand what was actually happening.

Perhaps the biggest question though, was why he had been taken as their target in the first place…

He, Nicolas Kendrick—occasionally known as Zebra to his unit mates—had no reason to be captured. That he could think of. His unit was stationed in Gibraltar, just off the southern coast of Spain, and out of all of them, he blended in the best with the locals. Having spent the first ten years as a child in the south of Spain probably helped with the native accent, but he _looked_ like the natives as well.

So whoever captured him, hadn't grabbed him because of any obvious foreign ties. He looked local.

Additionally, they hadn't captured him due to any obvious affiliation with the British army. Due to the current political situation and threats toward the armed forces, they were strongly _encouraged_ to be discrete in wearing the uniform while on an off-duty excursion. He had been in the process of returning from a week on the mainland, attending the sudden funeral of his grandfather. His uniform had been in his luggage—which he doubted he would ever see again.

They had grabbed him coming out of a seldom used hall, too fast for him to even register the threat. Apart from the initial knockout though, his captors had done little to him. They had thrown him into a stonewalled room, leaving his to shake off the worst of whatever they had drugged him with.

That had been several days ago. He thought. Time wasn't exactly moving in a linear fashion, but he was pretty sure that it hadn't been that long. The only thing he had to break up the day was the once daily feedings. At least… he guessed it was once a day, judging by the state of hunger between each meal. The guards who brought him food never said a word. He had even tried goading them once or twice, but to no effect. Even though that was _technically_ against RTI protocol.

He was completely in the dark. He doubted that he was still in Spain, as it was colder and the guards – if they were natives to this area – didn't appear to speak or understand Spanish. Or English.

Not that he was complaining about the lack of torture so far. It just made him nervous. There was a purpose behind this, and he didn't know what it was, but as each day passed, he became more and more certain that there was little hope of rescue or escape. Whoever this group was might have poked a beehive—Central Command wouldn't ignore one of their own just going missing—but they likely wouldn't be caught. There were no leads.

S-unit would be frantic, of course. Although the unit had been formed after basic training, utilizing some of the best Spanish speakers in the SAS, they had bonded over the past several months. They were a specialized unit, one of the five specialized language units that spent the majority of their deployment in or near a country that spoke their target language. They were a team, and now, it would seem that one of their members had disappeared into thin air.

They'd be lucky if they ever figured out what happened to him.

With a sigh, Nico forced himself to stretch out of his customary position. This essential solitary confinement was almost as bad as anything else they could have done to him—short of actual physical torture, of course. With nothing more than his thoughts for company, it had gotten old after just a couple of days. Training had offered no coping mechanisms.

The best he had come up with was exercise, and that had only served to make him feel even more exhausted—more than just the lack of food and water. Something else was at play, but he didn't know what. The only other options he had were planning impossible escape routes and fantasizing about smashing the guard's face in the next time the door opened. Those were both impossibilities though, so he felt like he was going mental just from trying to _cope_ with the silence.

 _Probably a reason why solitary confinement is supposed to be such a deterrent for prisoners…_

He should probably be counting his blessings though, that he was still in the land of the living, and pain free, at that. It could certainly be a whole lot worse. So far, it seemed that they didn't have any further plans for him, though he wondered why they had taken him in the first place.

* * *

 _Thud. Snick. Thud. Snick._

The sound was out of place. It caught Nico's attention, rousing him out of his latest stupor. The last meal had only been… several hours earlier. Or so he thought. At any rate, it was much too early for anyone to come visit him. Yet, there were once again sounds outside of his door. Down the hall. Or what he assumed was a hall.

There were people out there. People who were coming his way, with unknown intentions.

Any deviation from the daily schedule was cause for concern. It had only happened twice so far, and neither had been for the best. Both times had left him feeling like a piece of meat up for sale, and his demands for answers—which followed the Spaniard front he was putting up—were just laughed at. Once again, a little bit against protocol, but he honestly wasn't seeing any other way out of the situation. It had been at least 5 days by his count, so...

He knew better than to hope for the best, but he couldn't quite squash the spring of hope that bloomed in his chest. That something had happened. That someone had caught onto clues left behind. That maybe, somewhere out there, S-Unit was successfully tracking him down.

It was vain hope. He couldn't afford to keep thinking of it—it would only let him down in the end.

Like before, Nico backed up against the wall, furthest from the door. Though he had no real way of fighting back, he liked to pretend that the little bit of extra space gave him some room for movement. Not that he was going to figure out a brilliant escape plan within the next ten seconds.

He had nothing…

The door swung open, as expected, but the sight that greeted him was far different from anything he could have ever imagined. Certainly, the sight couldn't have been from anything but a horror movie.

Blood covered. Filthy. _Unconscious_.

As the youngest child in a large family, he wasn't quite sure that his protective instinct was on par with those who had younger siblings, but he was sure he was close. He wanted to rip the guards' faces off just for… _this_.

They tossed his newest cellmate into the room, taking little care for how he landed—like a sack of potatoes—leaving him crumpled in a heap in the middle of the floor, and then snarled a few words at Nico in a language that he didn't understand, before stalking out of the room.

The meaning was clear though. _Fix him, or else_.

Nico suppressed a flinch as the door was slammed shut and locked once again. As soon as he heard the retreating sound of boots, he got closer and took a good look at the boy. _The boy._ He couldn't have been much older than sixteen years old and he appeared to be wearing some sort of school uniform. _A school kid_.

He was lying motionless on the ground, apart from the shaky gasps that caused his entire body to twitch. The original appearance of being covered in blood turned out to be untrue, as the blood that covered his face and hands appeared to have come from a cut on his head—and head wounds always bled copiously. As well, there were signs of impressive bruising around his neck, but not deep enough to be the cause of the breathing difficulties.

Nico snapped his fingers in front of the boy's face, hoping that perhaps he would get some kind of response. Though if the drop onto the floor hadn't woken him… The boy didn't react at all, not even when Nico roughly shook his shoulder. It appeared that they had drugged him, and whatever they had used had yet to wear off. It was probably—Nico's training _finally_ coming into some sort of use—that the sedatives were causing some sort of reaction symptoms. He had seen it one other time, during RTI training at boot camp. Jay, one of his boot camp unit members, had learned the hard way that he wouldn't be able to continue in the SAS—he had nearly died from an allergic reaction to a common sedative.

This didn't _look_ as bad, but it was clear that something was wrong, and Nico suspected that it related to whatever sedative they had given him.

Though… what did they expect him to do? He had no supplies, little training for anything of the sort—he certainly wasn't the unit medic—and had hardly any clue as to what was actually wrong. Nico sighed, sitting back on his heels and trying to decipher what he could. The boy didn't look too worse for the wear. His skin—where it wasn't covered in blood—was pasty white in color, but the sedative—as well as a whole bunch of other factors—could have caused that. There was signs of bruising, but no obviously broken appendages. No points of copious bleeding. Apart from washing off the blood, he couldn't do much until the boy woke up—and even then, all he could do was attempt to make him comfortable.

At the very least, he could get the boy off the floor. It took more effort than it should have to pick up and move the boy—he was a dead weight—but eventually he was situated on the poor excuse for a bed in the room. There really wasn't much to it, a couple of blankets on a cold shelf, but it provided more comfort than the floor. Though the boy hardly stirred, Nico was optimistic that the drugs would wear off eventually. From his condition, it had been at least several hours since… _his capture?_ Either they had re-dosed him or the drugs were wearing off.

He grabbed the bit of water he had saved from the previous day, and began cleaning off the worst of the blood. There was nothing better to do until the boy woke up—and perhaps he would finally have some answers. Though it seemed ridiculous to think that the boy might know something about their kidnappers… it was a possibility.

The push for escape was new in his mind now. There was another person involved. The chance of rescue went up—someone _had_ to be looking for the boy. They would find a way out.

Somehow…

* * *

It was hours—getting uncomfortably close to the next feeding time—before there were any signs of boy waking up. Nico had gotten him cleaned up and looking slightly presentable, though there was still the underlying paleness to his skin that just looked unnatural. He hadn't gotten worse though.

Just by watching the boy's face, Nico could almost watch the progression of the drugs leaving the boy's system. His eyebrows furrowed, ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth eventually turning down in a frown as well, until he was grimacing in his sleep. Nico knew the next step would come, and doubted that it would be very pleasant.

Sure enough, Nico had little warning before the twitchiness of his sleep had startled into some form of awareness. Then he was twisting, and only Nico's foresight to an unpleasant wakeup prevented a messy situation. The boy heaved, coughing up vomit and bile. As unpleasant as it was, Nico knew that it was a step in the right direction for his body. If he could rid his body of at least some of the drugs, he would recover that much faster.

The boy was gasping for air once again, trying to find the balance between vomiting and breathing, leaning over the edge of the bed. Eventually, he seemed to calm, and the boy's muscles relaxed so completely that Nico wasn't sure if he was still conscious. His limbs trembled, ever so slightly, but there was movement in his eyelashes as well. He was still there, though perhaps only barely.

Nico pushed the pail away slightly, hoping that they wouldn't need it again. Then he looked over his charge. The awareness seemed to have put the smallest amount of color back in his complexion, but it wasn't without drawbacks. The boy shuddered, his face pulling into a grimace, as if he were reliving terrible memories, and he tried to curl in on himself. To automatically protect himself.

He figured it best to make his presence known sooner rather than later, so he put a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. He was immediately rewarded with a tensing of the muscles that spoke of fear. "¿ _Chico?_ " The question didn't quite have the response he was hoping for. The boy withdrew, ever so slightly, making it obvious that touch wasn't the best way to get his attention. He pressed on anyway. The language didn't matter, for the moment. It was more important to get a response. _"_ ¿ _Estás despierto?"_

This time, the question had more of a favorable response. After a few seconds, the boy's eyelids started fluttering, seeming to fight against the light. Eventually, Nico was rewarded with a fuzzy brown-eyed gaze that was squinting against the light in the room.

" _Está bien._ " Nico continued with the Spanish, having had plenty of time to make up his mind on his approach. Firstly, as far as the captors were concerned, he was a native Spaniard—and it needed to stay that way, especially with the boy's safety in mind. If they didn't know he was SAS, then that coming to light could put them in a very dangerous situation. Secondly, he needed to ascertain whether the boy had any idea of what country they were in. If he knew Spanish, or was a native, then it was most likely they were in the same or nearby country. Thirdly, he would have to have consistency for the boy. Accent and personality changing in the middle would certainly make things difficult. "Tal vez, no está seguro, pero… bien."

Nico's statement was rewarded with a quick flickering of the eyes, taking in all the things around the small room. He had to give it to the boy, he was certainly observant. The inquisitive eyes glanced over him only briefly, but it seemed he had been put into the _non-threat_ category. Then a little more awareness came into the boy's gaze, and Nico determined it was time to progress as best as he could.

" _Finalmente_." He tried to give the most placating, worry free smile to the boy, but by the slight furrow of the brow, guessed that he had fallen a little bit short of the mark. "Has estado… durmiendo mucho tiempo."

The boy blinked slowly, studying his expression, but didn't say anything. Either he didn't understand—which was a distinct possibility—or he had yet to come into full possession of his faculties. Both were equally likely.

" _Discúlpeme._ " He had to feign the sudden realization, but wanted to get to the point of information exchange as quickly as possible. _"_ ¿ _Hablas español?_ "

Faster than he had expected, the answer came back. " _Sí._ " It was clear that such a response took a lot of effort, and Nico doubted that they would be able to hold long conversations, but generalities could be assessed in the meantime. However…

"Inglés?"

"Of… course."

And if Nico didn't recognize that accent, then he might as well eat his passport claiming him as a citizen of the UK. A variant of the London accent, to be sure. "You're a student, right? Secondary?" He filtered it with a careful amount of emphasis on the accent. His teachers had always marveled at his accent modification skills, though this was the first time he had actually put it to the test with a new listener.

The boy nodded, but nothing more seemed to be forth coming.

"How are you feeling?"

The eyes squeezed shut for a moment, as if trying to deny existence. "Terrible." Then the eyes blinked open again, gazing at him with a penetrating gaze. "But I've had worse."

There was such sincerity in that statement that Nico was almost afraid to ask what could possibly be worse than being kidnapped, drugged, and held hostage. "You'll probably be feeling it for a while. Your system isn't responding well to whatever they gave you."

The boy nodded, but winced with the movement. "'s happened before…" His eyes slid shut, so he missed Nico's startled look of surprise.

 _Happened before…?_ Or was he just turning delirious again?

"'m sleepy." There was no sign that his eyes were going to open again, so Nico knew he was working on borrowed time. Until the boy woke up again.

"I'm sure you are, kid."

"'m not a kid…" The words started to slur together, as the little bit of tone that had come back to his muscles started to slip away. His body was no doubt exhausted, especially if it was just now getting rid of the drugs.

"Hold on a second." Nico shook the boy's shoulder, trying to keep him from slipping away completely. If he couldn't get all his questions answered, at the very least he could make sure… "Are you hurt anywhere?" He had no way of telling if he had missed a major injury, after all.

There was a long pause, and Nico almost thought the boy had drifted off. Then he got his response. "Ankle."

Nico moved carefully, not wanting to startle the boy. The first ankle he checked seemed perfectly fine. The other one though… was swollen, red and pulsing. But despite the tenderness, there didn't appear to be any deformity. So no broken bones. Even then, it would be painful to walk on for quite a few days yet. "Shit, kid." He mumbled to himself. "What'd you do? Jump from some height?"

"Nah… jus' from my flat."

The response startled Nico, and he paused in his examination to glance up at the boy. His eyes were still closed, although now with some added pain lines. "From your flat?"

"Mhmm… just a couple of levels…"

"What were—" He felt the leg muscles under his hand inexplicably relax and knew better than to finish the question. The boy was out for the count, once again. There would be no more answered questions until his body had recovered more.

Nico sighed and ran a hand over his face, shoving the panic and fear that he wouldn't be able to do anything out of his mind. They _would_ get free. Somehow.

Someone had to be looking for the boy.

For now, he would have to start with the obvious problems and work from there. The first step would be to wrap the ankle and provide it at least a little support.

Had to start somewhere…

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** **You all got lucky, because I had a test this morning and wanted to destress. So I figured I'd finish up the chapter. And now you've met Nico. What do you think? The next chapter will be from his perspective as well, but believe me, there's a reason why. So tell me your theories, your likes and dislikes. I promise, there's more to the story than just imprisonment** **;-) This is just setting it all up.**

 **S.B.L**


	3. Matter of Time

**_Disclaimer: If I owned Alex Rider... you wouldn't be reading this disclaimer._**

* * *

 ** _Chapter 3: Matter of Time_**

* * *

The next couple of days seemed to fly by at such a speed that Nico almost thought that they weren't truly complete days. The teen, who had eventually introduced himself as Alex, was a conundrum. Nico had gotten more out of him in those short few minutes at the beginning, than he had in any of the following days. And that had only been a handful of words. The second time the teen had woken, Alex had done little more than give his name, barely acknowledge the tentative questions Nico asked, eat and drink his allotted portion of the food, and then slip back asleep. That first day, he had been incredibly exhausted—and with reason.

Since then though, he had said and done little, aside from staring at the door to the cell with a kind of trepidation that spoke of previous experience. That was what disturbed Nico the most about his mannerisms. The resigned acceptance from Alex, as if there were no hope.

 _There was no hope. They weren't getting out._

Nico shook those thoughts off. They were all well and good while he had been alone. Now though… he had more motivation. Now he was looking for any weakness he could exploit in their captors. Despite this renewed determination, Nico couldn't help but see the hopelessness in Alex's gaze. As if he knew what was supposed to come next—which was impossible, because really… who had _experience_ with being captured?

 _"I've had worse…"_

What kind of teenager… what kind of _kid_ merely responds with that when confronted with what should seem like an insurmountable situation? The pinnacle of all things terrible. But, any further questions had been firmly rebuffed by Alex's continued silence and brooding. He hadn't uttered a word in the past three days, despite Nico's persistence.

Of course, it was entirely likely that the teen saw no reason to hope, because he viewed escape as impossible. Nico hadn't even been able to give him the hope that the military _might_ be out there looking for them. He couldn't reveal that piece of information. It was too dangerous, this late in the game. All he could say was his name, a modified version of his codename, _Seb_. For their own safety, it was best that Alex—and their captors—just considered him a civilian from the lowlands of Spain with a good handle on the English language. Underestimation was always a good place to start, but that unfortunately meant deceiving the teen as well.

And unless they escaped, he would never know about the deception.

Nearly a week in now though, and little had changed. The previous night had been rough, as far as Alex was concerned. After the initial exhaustion, the teen hardly appeared to sleep—despite Nico's insistence that a good night's sleep would be useful. Throughout their 'day' period, he would catch snatches of sleep for minutes here and there. Only a handful of times had Nico seen the teen fall into a deep sleep, and both times, nightmares had disrupted his sleep after only a couple of hours.

The previous night, for example, Nico had woken out of his own fitful sleep by the sounds of soft sobbing. At first, he had thought the teen was awake already, but the rigidity of his muscles had shown that he was still somewhere trapped in his dreams. Before Nico could make any move though, Alex had startled himself awake, cry cut off halfway as he reentered the waking world. And since then, he hadn't moved from his position beside the wall, rebuffing any of Nico's attempts at conversation.

Nico surveyed the teen for the hundredth time that morning, taking in the healing cuts and bruising. The days hadn't been kind to him, but at least he had stayed off his ankle. Alex had rewrapped it several times, with the skill of someone who had done it dozens of times before, and Nico had watched from the other side of the room. It too seemed to be healing, but would need several more days before he would be comfortable with any strenuous activity. Not that activity was popular in their current predicament.

All of a sudden, Alex set up straighter from his position beside the wall, staring at the door with a focused expression. Nico stilled and listened for the barely perceptible cue that he had apparently missed.

 _Thud… thud…_

Just a couple of steps away.

They were about to have visitors again. Once again, it was far too early for another meal.

The door opened with little fanfare, and Nico didn't even have time to contemplate what he was doing. Any movement on his part was likely to get them killed. It was too late to try to protect the kid.

Two men walked in. One, well dressed and cultured looking. Far too fine to be at an operation like this, but then, there always had to be the brains somewhere. The other was pure muscle and radiated smugness. The gun he wielded as if it were a child's toy made it clear that any wrong move on their part would not end well.

It seemed that they had finally decided to make their next move—and Nico _knew_ he was far outside of anything training could have prepared him for. After all, throwing a civilian into the mix always made things messy.

"I do hope you've made yourself comfortable." The finely dressed man was the first to speak, with the flat accent of… Nico wasn't quite sure. It was indistinct and unrecognizable. Almost as if he had worked hard to have a generic accent. The man smirked as he looked between Alex and Nico, seeming to calculate the distance between them, before turning his focus on Alex. "I thought it best to give you a little while to settle in—it seems that you don't like the tranquilizers very much, hmm?"

"And thank you ever so much for the extra time." The sudden exclamation from Alex caught Nico off guard. He stopped his analysis of the second man and flicked his eyes over to Alex. The pure and undisguised hatred there was almost palpable.

 _He knows them._

The sudden realization was almost terrifying in its quality. There was some kind of history here. And Alex intended to provoke it. Nico shook his head ever so slightly, trying to catch Alex's eye, but it was to no avail. Alex ignored him.

"Of course, if you had done your research, you should have known about that already." There was biting venom to his words, and Nico wondered at the bravery. _Or stupidity_.

The man shrugged carelessly. "I suppose Doctor Three forgot to mention it." Alex visibly bristled at the name, but the man only seemed to smile broader at that. "Or perhaps he did and we just decided to ignore it. He… how do you say it? _Outlived_ his usefulness."

"He's dead?" No fear there, just cold, clinical curiosity.

A spark of malice lit in the man's eye as he stared at Alex. If the man with the gun weren't still aiming on Nico, he would have thought they had forgotten about him. Things were turning stranger and stranger. And Nico had no idea what he had inadvertently gotten himself caught in the middle of.

"Of course," the man spat. "What do you expect when some punk kid decides to rat on the leaders? It doesn't do any good when the board members are easily identifiable." Faster than Nico would have thought possible, the man crossed the room, grabbed Alex's collar in his fist and pushed him against the wall. "You wouldn't know anything about that now, _Rider_ , would you?"

In a flash, fear flickered through Alex's eyes. So quick that if Nico hadn't been studying his expression so intently, he was sure he would have missed it. But it had been there.

Alex swallowed carefully. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Of course you don't." He shoved Alex back, before releasing him. "Get up."

"No."

The hand struck out in a flash, striking Alex across the cheek. Nico jumped to move, but the man with the gun stepped forward and made it obvious that any further movement would not be allowed. Nico sat back down, eyeing the gun warily. A gunshot in the wrong place would be an immediate death sentence. He couldn't be foolish.

Weeks earlier, he could have easily taken them both in a fight. Or at least attempted to. Now though, not only did he have a second party to worry about, but the distinct lack of adequate food and water over almost two weeks was taking a toll on him—and he suspected that some of the lethargy was coming from contaminated food or water…

"Decided to finally show your spirit, Rider?" The man glowered at him. "I won't tolerate your cheek like Rothman. Get up, or we'll show your friend our _finest_."

Alex's eyes flickered in Nico's direction for the barest hint of a second, calculating. Nico knew that gaze, the one that wondered if there were any ways out. It all boiled down to one question though. _Why were they focusing on him?_ There was history between them, but what kind, Nico had no idea.

Alex looked resigned, accepting of the inevitable.

His response must have taken too long though, because moments later, Nico was flinching away from the spray of a bullet that had passed far too close to his knee for his liking. The spray of woodchips and splinters from the damaged bed bit into Nico's skin, but didn't cause too much damage.

In that millisecond moment though, the resignation on Alex's face had turned to outright fear. Not fear for himself though. Fear for Nico.

And wasn't that different to have the tables turned on him. It felt strange to be on the other side of things. To have a teenager that apparently didn't understand that _he_ was the teenager and Nico was the _adult_ —the one supposed to provide the protection.

"Get up," the man growled. "Or next time, we won't miss."

Alex's eyes shifted to the ground, no longer making eye contact with Nico. They had crossed some barrier, marking some sort of turning point. The point where everything was going to get worse. And he was completely helpless to stop it.

Alex didn't look up again as he got to his feet. That fighting spirit that had shone through so blazingly only moments earlier was gone completely. He didn't resist at all as they manhandled him out of the room and into the hall. _Docile_.

 _Thud._

Nico slumped against the wall, staring at the now closed door, letting the momentary show of weakness go unheeded. _This_ was not what he had been trained for. _This_ was not enemy attacks, in the heat of battle, where he could be captured and asked to give up government secrets. Torture? They had prepared him. The acknowledgement that he might not make it out in one piece? Bearable. The knowledge that a comrade in arms might die in the next moment? Terrifying, but within the realm of reason. That's what happened in war.

 _This_ wasn't war though.

 _This_ was waiting for a teenager to return after… who knew what.

It wasn't in the handbook.

It wasn't in the RTI training.

This was a civilian, _a teenager_ —the ones that he was supposed to be protecting. No one had ever covered the possibility of the tables being flipped, of being the ones held to keep others cooperating. No one had covered it, because it should have been impossible.

The silence crept in, filling the room with a choking silence. Nico couldn't get Alex's last look out of his mind. Absolute dejection and… _an apology_. As if he were responsible for _everything_. The chilling response from the men hadn't helped either, they weren't afraid of using any means necessary to make him do what they wanted.

Nico wasn't sure where he was supposed to start. He supposed the first step was to wait until Alex came back and work from there. It was the best he could do…

* * *

Six days. Six days of the same routine and no explanations whatsoever. Over two and a half weeks… and nothing.

All Nico had to work off of were his own observations—and none of them were very promising.

He knew the signs, could make very educated guesses as to what was occurring behind those closed doors, but whoever they were up against were being very cautious. They were only leaving small clues behind, and Alex appeared to be doing most of the work of keeping to himself. No matter what Nico said or did, Alex barely gave him the time of day—much less told him what was actually happening during the almost daily _sessions_. _Once_ they had given him a day of reprieve… but it hadn't been enough.

The nights had only gotten worse, too. Sometimes even slipping over into the daytime moments where they left him alone. He was almost constantly ridged in his sleep, seeming to stifle cries of distress. It couldn't have been restful—especially after whatever stress he had been through during the day.

Yes, Nico had a good inkling of what was going on, yet he had no idea how to do anything about it. After the first day, Alex hardly resisted when they came to take him, only forlornly casting his eyes away from Nico. _Ashamed_. That sassy, snappy personality that had appeared for those brief minutes had disappeared completely, instead, retreating in on himself. He sat apart, stared at nothing, and _waited_.

Even his body was rebelling. He slipped asleep at random times, quite frequently. Only to wake up minutes later because of whatever memory or nightmare that was haunting him. It was worrying, but once again, there was nothing Nico could do. He was so far out of his scope of expertise—what training had prepared him for was nothing like reality. All he could do was attempt to convince the teenager that eating something would help. Even that though… had been hard to accomplish.

Nico glanced over at the silent teen. He was sleeping again, though probably not for long.

In the past several days, Alex had taken to curling up in his own little corner of the room, backed as far away from the door as possible. Nico had sacrificed one of the remaining blankets to Alex's comfort—practically forcing it on him—because it was clear that he wasn't going to go anywhere near the bed.

He _knew_ Alex was hurting. It was obvious in his facial expression when he was staring off into nothing. But visible injuries hadn't been present—and it wasn't like Alex permitted Nico to examine him. Not that it would have done much good. He wasn't a medic and he had no supplies.

With each passing hour, Alex seemed to retreat into himself even more, sometimes not reappearing when they came to take him away again. He always came back looking rougher and more unkempt, both physically and mentally.

Nico sighed. He was running out of options. They needed out sooner rather than later.

* * *

Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he had woken and found his life turned around, and he was starting to wonder if there was any hope of going back. If holding onto hope was actually feasible.

Seventeen days. It had been seventeen days since the teenager had joined him in his solitude and given him determination back. Now, he wondered what the use of determination was, when he couldn't actually do anything.

Ten days. It had been ten days since their captors had started knocking Alex down peg by peg, until he appeared to be a shell of what he had started with.

And Nico was at a loss.

He didn't know what he could do. Didn't know what he should do.

Especially when their captors seemed to have taken such a drastic turn.

Alex slept nearly all the time now, his body being too weak even to startle himself out of most of the nightmares. He had stopped eating several days earlier and only sipped at water. When he was awake, he followed Nico's movements, but never said a word. If it weren't for the pleading and mumbling in his sleep, Nico would have thought that they had done something to his voice.

Then, the most recent time they returned him, he had come back soaking wet and shivering. Even hours later, he was still shivering in his sleep, and Nico doubted that he was going to get warm again anytime soon. The room wasn't frigid, but it certainly wasn't warm. That chill would eventually be a death sentence… if their captors didn't get them first.

Although the hope of rescue had shone bright in the beginning, he knew that every day that passed just cut their chances even further. He had hoped, at first, that Alex had been a hostage, and some sort of ransom would be worked out. That someone would be coming after him. After those first several days though, it was clear that _Alex_ had been their goal—though Nico had yet to figure out how he fit into the picture, or if he was just there to obtain Alex's cooperation.

A random selection like that certainly wouldn't mean that any authorities put their disappearances together. They were different by several days, in completely different countries… Even though his unit mates were likely combing the area—or had been, because they knew better than to think he was AWOL—the likelihood of them finding any useful clue dropped every single day. Unless someone was looking for Alex, and had a very good lead, Nico suspected that their days were numbered.

A harsh cough interrupted Nico's thoughts, and for the second time in as many hours, it sounded like Alex was struggling for breath. He had picked it up after the latest round of their _tortures_ , and combined with his wet clothing… Nico couldn't help but imagine the worst origins for it.

Some form of water torture.

And they were doing it to someone who was essentially a child.

He couldn't stand it.

He had to do something…

Nico grabbed the last of their blankets and invaded the teen's space. The last time he had tried, Alex had glared at him, tried to lash out at him, but he suspected that Alex wasn't going to be in any state to complain now.

 _Keep thinking positive._

 _We'll get out._

The coughing finally stopped, but it took a moment before Alex's breathing had settled again.

Nico crouched down beside the teen in the corner, taking in the pale sheen to his skin, the wet clothing, and the shivers. His breathing sounded wet and crackly—and Nico hoped that they wouldn't continue with this line of torture.

Alex's eyes fluttered open when Nico wrapped the blanket around him, gaze taking in the close up details, yet looking puzzled and disoriented.

Nico gave him a weary smile. "You're soaking wet still." It was stating the obvious, but he knew better than to expect a response. He knew that any attempt at comfort would just fall flat. It didn't help that he was still keeping up his persistent façade of a native Spaniard, which put a small wedge of inaccessibility between them. Although he doubted that his nationality now made any difference with their captors, he suspected that a sudden change in… _accent_ would throw Alex for a loop. He already had enough going on.

"Hmm…" Alex's eyes blinked heavily, before focusing on Nico. He looked the most put together he had in days. "Well, water's wet."

Nico blinked.

He hadn't been expecting any sort of response.

For the past… seventeen days, the teen had hardly paid him any heed. And now he was…

"And there was far too much of it involved." The exhaustion was clear in his voice, but for once, his eyes were bright with awareness. So unlike the past couple of days. "I don't… I'm thirsty. You'd think I'd gotten enough of it already." He smiled somewhat self-depreciatingly, and Nico felt his heart clench.

It was one thing to harbor those fearful thoughts and suspicions. It was something completely different to have them confirmed. In a mocking manner. There was no question about it—whatever their tortures had been before, they had turned to water torture.

And Nico still had no idea _why_.

Swallowing his thoughts carefully, Nico studied Alex's face. "Would you like a drink?" He didn't dare ask for more, almost afraid to break the teen out of his seeming lucidity.

Carefully, Alex nodded. He broke into another coughing fit while Nico crossed the room to grab their solitary cup and fill it with water. It calmed again quickly, and Nico hoped that this was a good sign. Perhaps all hope wasn't quite lost.

Perhaps.

Alex drank down the water with little fanfare, not even bothering to analyze it carefully, as he had in the past.

"Would you like more?"

"No."

Only years of training kept Nico from biting at his lip. He wasn't sure what the next move was. Whose move _was_ it? He didn't want to press the teen—but he clearly knew more than he had let on.

"I'm sorry."

Nico's head jerked up, trying to figure out what the teen in front of him could possibly be apologizing for. The absolute sincerity in his eyes was tinged with the look of someone who _knew_ that getting out wasn't going to happen. That they were in a hopeless situation. Nico wanted to yell at him, to tell him not to give up hope, but couldn't. That would be hypocritical.

"They probably wouldn't have grabbed you, if they thought I would cooperate without leverage." Alex pulled the blankets down around his shoulders, seeming to create a barrier. The shutters were coming down again, and Nico wasn't any closer to getting any answers. "But I can't. You've got to understand. You've got to."

Nico nodded, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to understand.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." His hands moved from clutching at the blankets, to fisting into his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut. "But they know… they _know_ … they want _them_ …"

The moment was lost. The lucidity was gone.

Nico reached out and gripped his shoulder for a moment, and was rewarded with a flinch. "I'm sure you are." He shook his head. "I'm sure you are…"

* * *

Not for the first time, Nico watched his charge toss in a fevered sleep. The night before, his temperature had skyrocketed. The moments of lucidity of the days past were long gone. Now, he tossed and turned in his sleep, barely kept liquids down, and had a cough so bad that it sounded like he was trying to lose a lung.

Their captors hadn't cared at all. They had taken Alex and returned him—barely conscious and soaking wet. Nico would have loved to yell at them, to ask them what was the point of killing someone so slowly, but a small secret part of his heart was still hoping for a miraculous rescue.

If they could just hold out.

Another coughing fit broke the teen's sleep and Nico knew that it was time for another attempt at water. Unless Nico forced it on him, Alex wasn't eating or drinking anything. So, with nothing else to do, Nico did the best that he could whenever the teen woke up. He had success about half the time. There were times that Alex pushed him away or didn't respond at all. There were other times that he cooperated. Thankfully.

As usual, Nico approached cautiously. Alex was stirring, rousing himself as the coughing fit ended. It had a deeper quality than before, and Nico had no doubt that it hurt. He knew that violent enough coughing could cause broken ribs, and he hoped that Alex hadn't yet gotten to that point.

"Alex?" He took the slight turn of the head in his direction as good sign, and settled on the floor next to Alex. "Come on, let's get you sitting up."

Alex's dazed and unfocused gaze just slid on past Nico, but he didn't actively push him away. Nico slid an arm around his shoulder, pulling him up into a sitting position. It wouldn't do to pour more water down his lungs inadvertently. Alex's head lolled against his shoulder and Nico could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Just a little water, then you can sleep some more if you'd like." He had found that this sort of bargaining tended to get through. Nico felt more than heard the hitch in Alex's breathing. The teen was close, but any moves too early would mean losing the race. He picked his words carefully. "Come on kid, trust me."

Alex's gaze wandered the room, but the ever so slight relaxing of his positioning told Nico that he almost had it. Just a little bit more.

"Hey Alex, come on." He leaned so that he could at least pass through Alex's field of vision. He might not be seeing things at the moment, but he knew someone was there. "You've got to drink something." Carefully, he coaxed tiny sips of water into Alex, taking care to let back when Alex tried to take too much at once. "That's it…"

Finished, Alex leaned back slightly. His eyes skittered across Nico's face, not seeming to take in the features. "Who… you?"

Nico swallowed. "Seb, remember?"

Alex nodded, as if it solved everything. "Oh."

Nico _wanted_ to be able to tell him that everything would be okay. That it was only a little fever and he'd be better before he knew it. That _surely_ someone would come to their rescue. But he couldn't. Because he knew it would be a lie.

He felt Alex relaxing against him, and knew that he was going to slip asleep again. Perhaps sleep was the best way out for him right now. Once he was asleep again, Nico would slip away. There was no telling what kind of mood Alex would wake in next, but he had never seemed to appreciate someone being close. Until the next time.

The time left for both of them was rapidly counting down.

Alex was quickly reaching the end of his usefulness—delirious and unfocused wouldn't get their captors whatever information they thought he had. Things would escalate soon.

* * *

When the guards came two days later to get them both, Nico knew that the final chapter had opened—and he didn't see any escape.

* * *

 ** _A/N:_ You have no idea how long it took me to write this chapter. Like seriously. It was intense. Hope you enjoyed it though. Alex's perspective in the next chapter, so stay tuned! As usual read and review people. Read and review. Please.**

 **S.B.L.**


	4. Penance

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing. I don't even own the space I live in or a car, you think I own Alex Rider?_**

 ** _Chapter 4: Penance_**

* * *

The air was choking in his lungs.

He longed to take a breath.

It had been _so_ long…

 _Minutes?_

 _Hours?_

It couldn't have been…

He didn't know anymore.

All he knew was the burning sensation in his chest as he struggled to hold his breath.

 _Just._

 _A._

 _Little._

 _Longer…_

His muscles were spasming, fighting between his body's basic needs for oxygen and his own determination. He couldn't let them win. He had already lost once— _and they weren't letting him forget_. He wasn't going to lose again.

Suddenly, hands yanked him back, the cold air hitting his face in a mocking embrace. And he gasped for it. Gasped for the oxygen that he needed, barely managing to fill his lungs before violent coughing overtook him and expelled all of the previous air he had just regained. His vision greyed out and he fell limp in the grip of the two men that were manhandling him, pulling his already bruised shoulders at an uncomfortable angle.

"Had enough, Rider?" A hand gripped his chin, jerking his face up to meet that of his captor's. He still couldn't catch his breath and each lungful only seemed to fill him part way. The man, who had introduced himself as Clyde, smirked at him. "Hmm… I think that concoction did the trick. Couldn't have you copping out because you were delirious, could we?"

Alex tried to pull himself together, to bring the scattered fragments of his mind back together, but he was _so_ tired. His entire body hurt—he was sure it was just a mass of bruises—but even that had decreased with whatever they had dosed him with. It had been just enough to bring him out of the haze of fevered delirium and into semi-coherent thought.

"Shall we start with the easy questions again?" Clyde growled, before signaling the goons to drop him. He crumpled as soon as the support was gone and only luck kept him from striking his head. A boot caught him in the ribs— _bruised? Broken?_ —and he curled in on himself.

"Answer me."

Unable to muster up the strength to say anything—what was he even supposed to say?—Alex settled for a glare to convey his thoughts. _Go to hell_. He couldn't force his face into a proper glare, diminishing the effect, but Clyde seemed to get the message. He merely smirked again, before waving at the goons.

Before Alex could even _think_ about getting a lungful of air, they had spun and disoriented him before dunking his head and shoulders back into the tank of water.

 _No air._

The tendrils of water wormed their way between his eyelashes, stinging his eyes.

It rushed into his ears.

Snaked up through his nose.

Burned through the cuts and scrapes on his face.

Pretended to caress the bruising.

Yet still drowning him.

He had long since learned that it was useless to struggle. He had tried that at first, before his energy had run out completely—days earlier. They were stronger than he was, and had the advantage of numbers. They had him firmly and there was no hope of escaping it.

A sharp hit on his back made him lose the little air in his lungs in one rapid rush. Only the barest presence of mind kept him from automatically inhaling again. It was only a matter of time though. Before will and determination gave way to the automatic tendencies of his body.

His lungs were burning.

He felt the tickle in the back of his throat that signaled an oncoming cough.

He slumped, his body going completely lax, in the hopes that they would assume him passed out. Would pull him out.

 _Nothing._

This time, when the urge to cough came, he couldn't resist. It was his body's natural reflex. Water flooded his mouth, gagging him, trying to rush into places where it wasn't supposed to go. It mixed with the cough and inhale, infiltrating everything. Mouth, throat, _lungs_.

He tried.

Tried so hard.

He knew a copious amount of water in his lungs was a death sentence.

 _Then_ they pulled him out, dropping him unceremoniously onto the stone floor. He heaved along with the coughs, as his body struggled to get rid of the unwelcome water. The burning in his ribs only increased, as even though he was in an oxygen rich environment, he couldn't stop choking and spluttering long enough to get an inhale. Every attempt only served to prolong the coughing and retching.

"My, my, Rider. How the mighty have fallen," Clyde whispered into his ear. A hand pinned him to the ground and he struggled to cease the coughing. If he just got one inhale… "And all it took was just a little bit of _water._ "

He shuddered away from the touch, and finally, _finally_ , his body gave up the fight. His chest heaved as he gulped in small mouthfuls of air, weary of taking a deep breath and triggering the coughing again. After a few long moments, the world solidified again, and reality turned crystal clear once more. Whatever they had drugged him with was working a little _too_ well…

"They warned me that you were _feisty_ , but they didn't do your stubbornness justice. Your… _pigheadedness_. After all, you hardly try to defend yourself." Something hard knocked him across the chest, knocking the air out of his lungs. For one breathless moment, he was terrified that the coughing would start up all over again, but it didn't. "I can see why Doctor Three liked you. _So promising_. But you're clearly not expecting rescue. There's no reason to keep holding out. After all, you're just prolonging your suffering."

To know rescue wasn't coming, was one thing. To hear someone mock him about it… He _knew_ there was no way MI6 would come for him. It had been too long. Too many days, and likely no leads. The only reasoning he had for not following along with their wishes was that he _really_ didn't want to die knowing he was a traitor to his own country. Not that he knew the information they wanted… So far, his captors hadn't acquiesced with his usual ploy of goading them into killing him prematurely.

He didn't truly have a death wish.

He just didn't want to let them win.

"Are you ready to answer questions now?"

"Go… t' h-hell," Alex rasped, not sure how he had even managed to come up with that. He fought down the urge to be physically sick again.

"Hmm, no?" Clyde shoved him hard. "Well, since you're so stubborn, I guess we'll have to move onto the next step. I'd say sorry, but really, you brought this on yourself."

Before he could say or do anything else, hands picked him up and deposited him into the chair at the center of the room. The chair had always been there. He shuddered to think of what had happened before… though the memories strangely were foggy. As it was, the room spun around him and he continued to struggle to catch his breath. He didn't have the energy or strength to fight against them, as they strapped his arms and legs to the restraints. His head lolled to his chest, the muscle movements too much to support.

He was wiped out. He wouldn't be able to take much more.

That was _almost_ a comforting thought.

The drugs only served in clearing up some of the fog, it didn't clear up the exhaustion.

"Let's play a game, Rider." Clyde pushed his chin up, forcing eye contact. "I thought your new friend was getting a little lonely all alone in the cell, so I figured he should join in today too. Unfortunately, he won't be able to hear your screams."

The hand wrenched his head to the side, so he was staring across the room. Separated by a large glass wall—one that he didn't remember being there in the past—they had strung up his cellmate by his arms at a no doubt uncomfortable angle.

"He got to watch the opening parry. Seemed to get a little… _worked up_. So we had to bring him back down to earth and start the fun a little early."

Alex was just able to make out the starting marks of bruises on Zeb's torso— _it was Zeb, wasn't it? Or was it Seb… Or… Or… He couldn't remember…_ —and averted his eyes, not wanting to see the sure horror on the other man's face. Though his mumblings days earlier had been half-delirious, he had meant what he said. They likely wouldn't have taken the other man, except for the fact that they knew that a bargaining chip was more likely to get Alex to cooperate. He might not care about his own life, but he certainly didn't want more deaths on his conscience.

And he had tried.

Tried so hard to keep them away.

Even gave up insignificant answers at times, just trying to buy more time. More chances for the other man to have an opportunity to escape. He had failed and… _this man_ would just be another face on the increasing list of kills. He didn't see a way to get either of them out alive. He couldn't give Clyde the information he wanted—partially because he wasn't going to betray his country, partially because he didn't _know_ the information in the first place.

"This is how it's going to work Rider; your friend over there will only get as much of a reward as you let him. It'll be up to you. For every wrong answer you give, Vladimir here will break one of the bones in _your_ fingers."

Alex felt the blood drain out of his face.

Clyde grinned nastily. "Oh, yes. Since we'll run out of fingers and bones eventually, we'll give you a little rest between each one. Only, we'll have to take your continued disobedience out on your friend. He'll last longer than you will, obviously. You should know better than to _test us_."

Alex shuddered, a sickly feeling washing over him. He had no doubt that they were going to live up to their words. And while he couldn't entirely remember the past couple of weeks, he knew that they were sinking to a completely new level. He wasn't sure he could _do_ it.

"Let's start with something basic. You can work with us, can't you? What does MI6 know about the _reformed SCORPIA_?"

 _Reformed SCORPIA…?_ Alex felt as if he had heard that phrase recently and it put a sour taste in his mouth. They had come back, obviously. No matter the clarity he felt though, he still had trouble maneuvering his tongue to form words. "Ba…sterds…"

A hand snapped out and struck him across the face, setting his ears ringing. "Sneaky, though perhaps not altogether a lie. But I'm afraid you're going to need to give us a little more than that." He grabbed Alex's chin and forced the eye contact once more. "Let's try it again. What does MI6 know about the reformed SCORPIA?"

Alex rolled the words around in his head. They had been questioning him about this all week… _right?_ That's what this was about…. _Or was it…?_ Mrs. Jones had never mentioned anything—especially not that he had been at threat from them. "Nu-nothing… They know… _nothing._ "

A flick of the wrist from Clyde and the audible snap made Alex flinch and bite his tongue in surprise. His stomach churned and the room greyed out for a moment, before snapping back into reality. The pain hadn't really come yet; his body was still in the shock of the moment.

He didn't dare look down.

"I hope you realize how stupid that was." Clyde said, as if chiding a small child. "We _know_ MI6 is on to us. We know things you couldn't even imagine. We have a mole on the inside, after all. They just don't know _everything_. But a rather frequent teenage visitor to the Head's office… well that just piqued our interest."

Alex's eyes widened at the horrific realization. His own side had turned him in. Someone, somewhere, knew exactly where he was, because they had arranged it to be that way. _They_ didn't realize that every time he went to the Head's office, it was because of some change in arrangements, or because he had screwed up, or because Jones was threatening him with revoking his guardianship arrangement.

All because someone else assumed he was the key to the secrets of the division.

His distrust for anyone related to MI6 increased, even as slightly hysterical laughter bubbled up. He tried to swallow it down, tried to drown the irony in his brain, but only succeeded in triggering a coughing fit that left him gasping and jerking in his bonds. The movement was too much for his hand and started a deep ache that would no doubt get worse at time passed.

"Maybe that's too general for your feeble mind to comprehend. Maybe we should start with something easier. When did MI6 start investigating our presence? Can't have any moles on our side, after all."

Alex just shook his head. He couldn't bear to meet his cellmate's eyes— _what was his name…?_ —as his continued silence would mean pain for him as well. He couldn't stand to see whatever they inflicted on him.

"Oh, no, no. That's not fair. Your friend suffers—you suffer. Watch, Rider." A hand forced him to look forward, but he still tried not to watch. Tried not to see the immediate welt and bruise that followed the line of the whip. _Once. Twice. Three times._ Tried not to see the pain in the other man's eyes—all while feeling the throb in his arm pick up in tempo. "No blood, but just hard enough to create deep bruising. He'll be able to hold out longer—so we might have to give him more. It all depends on how stubborn you decide to be. Now, when did MI6 start their investigation, hmm?"

Once again, Alex just shook his head, trying to mentally prepare himself for the pain. It didn't work. The world greyed out, in time with the snap that seemed unnaturally loud to his ears. The wash of pain this time was more acute, immediately sending throbbing pain up and down his arm. He tried to block it out, panting with the effort.

"You just don't learn, do you? I hope you realize that there's more than one joint in each finger that we can break." A hand caressed his and Alex tried to jerk away. It only served in making the throbbing intensify. "Now, how about you answer our questions, hmm?"

* * *

Alex spluttered for air as he dropped to the ground for the third time in as many minutes. He instinctively curled around his arm, trying to protect the maimed and mangled joints from any further abuse. As it was, each miniscule movement brought another wash of pain and nausea.

His view of the world had long since narrowed down to nothing but his own pain and the persistent, insistent questioning. Words with little meaning now, just blurring together. _Who knew? When did they start investigating? What were the codes? Who had access? Where…? It would all stop, if he just answered them._

He had already attempted to throw up more than once, but each time had brought up nothing more than bile and triggered a violent coughing fit. The throbbing fire that traveled up his arm only surpassed the pain in his ribs.

Clyde had decided that he needed to wake up, once they had finished with the first four fingers. Twelve perfectly executed breaks—and who knew how many lashes for his cellmate—and with the last two, Alex had been hovering on the edge of consciousness. The pain was so close to pushing him over the edge… so, they had dunked him. Repeatedly. Until he thought his lungs would burst.

"Your friend is not doing so well, Rider. I think you need to learn to take better care of your friends. It's a shame that you keep getting them killed off." The sharp click of boots pacing a short distance away carried across the room, and Alex couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut and wish that those boots wouldn't get any closer. He wasn't even listening to the words anymore. The room was a wash of sound, each noise a cacophony, and every movement a threat to his very being.

He _wanted_ to sink into the darkness. He had reached his limit. He had _surpassed_ it, even. It was just that every time he got close to the relief, someone forcibly pulled him back. His only comfort was that there would be a point where they couldn't force him any longer, he could only withstand so much—he just feared how far away that point might yet be.

"Do you know how many bones there are in your hand, Rider?"

Alex shrank back, hearing the boots come closer. He wasn't safe. The boots stopped right next to his head, where he was curled on the ground.

"Do you? No? There are roughly twenty seven in each hand." His broken hand was roughly pulled away from his chest and Alex couldn't help the mumbled pleas for them to stop. The begging for relief. "Just think, Rider, how much pain do you think I could cause you, if I decided to crush every one of those little structures?" Alex's breath caught in his throat as the man tugged, ever so slightly, on the one finger that wasn't _yet_ broken—his thumb. "How much do you think we could get out of you in that time, hmm? Would we have to take a break, and then start all over again? Break everything again?"

Alex whimpered in his chest, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve his hand.

"Feel like testing me, Rider? Your continued resistance tells me otherwise." The fingers stroked his thumb, mockingly. "Just tell me, Rider. Tell me one little thing. Where are the _Gemini_ files? Hmm? Where are _his_ files?"

He heard the words, but he couldn't process them. He knew he was failing yet another test; they would punish him again. His heartbeat sped up even more, his hand still a hostage. The mask that held back the visible fear and pain crumbled, and so, he didn't even think twice about the sobs and pleas that rose up from the recesses of his mind. He had passed beyond the capabilities of forming functional speech, of telling them what they wanted to hear. _He couldn't…_

"Hmm… pity." There was a sharp yank, an audible crack that seemed to resonate around the room, and this time, Alex couldn't stop the scream that bubbled up—even though the air required for such a move, he hardly had. He jerked away, heedless of the increase in pain that it caused, trying to protect the appendage. Trying to keep any more harm from occurring.

He gasped at air, trying to deny the agony that was traveling up his arm in waves of fiery pain.

Only the sound of crashing glass and subsequent rapport of guns cut through his drawn out sounds of pain. Hardly thinking, he pushed himself until he had his back against the wall, curling his arm toward his chest, trying to stifle the agony. Self-preservation was still, for some reason, high in his thoughts.

He was freezing.

He couldn't think anymore.

His hand was burning.

He wondered if he had finally paid enough penance…

* * *

 ** _A/N: Cliffy!_**

 ** _This was probably one of the hardest chapters I've ever written—not really a huge fan of drawn out torture scenes, so I hope I captured Alex's thoughts properly, without making it too graphic. There are definitely some unanswered questions and I hope that I set it up so you won't be confused later on. Promise._**

 ** _So, please let me know how you liked this. There are still many, many, many chapters to go—this is only the tip of the iceberg. Until next time!_**

 ** _S.B.L._**


	5. Hope

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Alex Rider. Never have, never will._**

 ** _Chapter 5: Hope_**

* * *

He hadn't expected anything. It had seemed hopeless from the outset.

After all, he all but resigned himself to what seemed like a _very_ messy end.

Those first few minutes, when they had thrown Nico into a separate room, tied him so that his feet were barely touching the ground, and all but forced him to watch as they injected some kind of drug into Alex, he was sure that that would be the final blow. There would be no more. Yet strangely, it had worked in the opposite manner, and for a few moments, his diminished spirit had risen up.

Alex had fought for himself, for a handful of minutes, before they had proceeded with part two of their plan. The systematic breaking down—by nearly drowning him. The teen had fought at first—though gasping for air whenever he was pulled out—but eventually even his spirit was dampened. When they had manhandled the teen into the waiting chair, dull eyes had stared at Nico for only a moment, before looking away.

In that brief glance though, Nico had seen the shame and self-disgust. Somehow… for some reason… Alex was blaming himself. _For who?_

Very few sounds made it across the glass barrier that separated them—likely, someone had designed it with just that purpose in mind. A method to force him to watch the torture, without being able do anything about it.

The visible flinches from Alex were impossible to miss—in response to a question…? The sudden paling—chalk white, instead of just blanched—indicated something more. Though what…? He barely had time to process it, before fire snaked its way across his torso. _Once. Twice. Three times_. He jerked in his chains with each hit, trying to pull away, but only succeeding in pulling on his shoulders. He would dislocate them if he wasn't careful.

Nico blinked through the sudden haze—whipping wouldn't put him out forever, but it was enough shift his concentration. So much, that he almost missed the essential piece of information thrown his way. Alex jerked in his chair, and this time, Nico understood.

They were methodically breaking his fingers.

* * *

It continued on for forever. Brief spurts of pain followed by stretches of uncomfortable silence.

Nico slowly lost contact with anything outside of his own sphere.

The pain of breathing.

The urge to _relax_ just a little more.

The knowledge that tensing his muscles would make the pain worse.

Even through that though, it was impossible to miss Alex's own slow descent into a pain-induced disconnect from reality—yet never once appearing to scream. The teen's once present stubbornness had been exchanged for something else. He could only watch as the submersion started up once again, giving him a slight break. Only long enough to gather his wits and desperately look for a way out.

Yet he could do nothing. He could say nothing. He could only watch as the once proud and stubborn figure, fell limp to the floor, only trying to protect his injured hand. The teen looked to have little more sense than a wild animal. Nico let his eyes drop when the main perpetrator walked up to Alex's shivering form. He couldn't take it much longer—either of them. They were out of time.

His head snapped up, rattling the chains and jostling his precarious footing at the sound of an audible and hair-raising scream. Whatever they had just done, had apparently been the tipping point for Alex—and they had thought it was appropriate to taunt Nico with the sound. The sound carried across the glass barrier, unlike any of the earlier sounds, and the sound of suffering was just _too much_.

However, the scream triggered a reaction that was almost too complex for Nico to follow. Within moments, the state of the two rooms had changed completely. The glass wall that was once there was no more. There were people _everywhere_.

Guns fired.

Glass shattered.

But apart from the man who had been in the room with Nico, their captors had all disappeared.

 _Vanished._

Nico blinked heavily, suddenly feeling an unprecedented exhaustion sweep over him. He sagged in the chains for a moment, before an uncomfortable tug on his shoulders reminded him that that wasn't a good idea. A glance in the right direction though, sent a wave of relief through him. The insignia on the uniforms was enough to tell him that they were finally with friends.

 _SAS_.

There was hope.

Between one blink and the next, a man appeared in front of him, fiddling with the locks and chains that kept his arms raised—and quite possibly what was keeping Nico on his feet. "We'll get you out of here in just a moment." The soft burr of a familiar accent was enough to reassure Nico. The man looked familiar and Nico wracked his brain for a reference. Familiarity likely meant that he had either been at boot camp, or at a station with one of the other European specialty units.

Then it clicked. "Cobra." Boot camp, though in another training unit. "What… unit?" The words caught in his throat awkwardly, and he realized that at some point he had screamed himself nearly hoarse.

The man looked at him in surprise, no recognition on his face, but only paused in his task for a moment. "D-unit. And you are?" There was only a hint of suspicion there, but that was to be expected.

Nico nodded slightly, trying not to pull on his muscles unnecessarily. Another European specialty unit—most often stationed near a base in Germany.

He nearly fell when the cuffs and chains came undone; the sudden rush of blood to his fingertips causing an intense stinging and tingling sensation, but Cobra caught him before he fell. The sudden release had his muscles protesting in agony, but he gritted his teeth as he tried to find his shaky feet. He only had need of keeping it together for a little while longer. They would soon be in safety. "Zebra, S-unit."

There was a sharp inhale from his right, but Nico decided that turning his head would probably not be a good idea. As it was, a man with captain's bars stepped in front of him, surveying him quickly. "Leopard, captain of D-unit. Report, Zebra."

A brief smile worked its way across Nico's face at the familiarity. "Abducted while returning from compassionate leave in Spain." He hoped they would excuse the brevity, but standing in place was only making him more aware of how injured he was. "They brought Alex after that. Used me to get him to cooperate. While they tortured him. They broke the fingers on his left hand." He stifled a shudder as he remembered the distant gaze get further and further away. "And they tried drowning him…" He knew there was more he should tell them. More that was applicable. But… he couldn't.

Thankfully, Leopard seemed to understand this. "At ease, Zebra. As soon as we've got the kid, we'll get out of here."

Nico's eyes flickered toward the glass wall that was no longer there and the crowd of soldiers in the other room. "Is he okay?"

There seemed to be a long moment of silent communication between Leopard and Cobra—who was still partially supporting Nico's weight. After a moment, Leopard shook his head slowly. "He won't let anyone get close. We don't want to sedate him, but…"

Nico shook his head vehemently, ignoring the ripples of pain it sent up his back. "No! Had a bad reaction to _their_ sedative. And he's swallowed and inhaled a lot of water—it'll only make it worse." Nico tried to straighten up, to be more the soldier that he was. So long as he ignored the burning pain, he could pretend for a little while. "Let me… let me talk to him."

Leopard surveyed him with a suspicious stare, assessing him carefully, before nodding. "If you think that might work—and you're up to it. By all means."

Determined though he was, he still needed help traversing the space, his footsteps wobbly and his back and chest paining him more with every movement. Though the whip had hardly broken skin, it had left behind visible marks of its passage. The full extent of the damage wouldn't be visible for another couple of days though. It hurt now, but would hurt even more later. There was no avoiding it, unfortunately.

He was pulled up short by the sight that Alex presented him with. This was an image that was so completely opposite of what Nico had seen in the past weeks, even in the past days. The teen was curled into a ball, protecting his visibly swollen hand with a sort of ferocity of the desperate. His sobs, though inaudible, were unmistakable. The tear tracks alone seemed out of place on the usually stoic teen.

With help, Nico managed to crouch down beside the teen, taking in the shivers and raspy breathing that told a story all its own. He was likely in shock, teetering on the edge of coherent thought and responses. Even a hesitant hand on his knee caused him to curl in further on himself. "Alex? They're here to help." Bleary eyes opened to look at him, unfocused, but recognizing. "They're SAS—soldiers. They just want to get us out of here."

He could feel the questioning gazes upon the sudden accent, but he ignored them. They were all well aware of the extra training that went along with being a part of one of the specialized units. For now, consistency for Alex would be the best. A familiar voice would be more likely to put him at ease.

"He-help…?" The statement was breathy and barely audible.

"Yes, exactly." A familiar, yet resigned, look came into Alex's eyes, and Nico took that as the cue to signal the medic. "Have to get your hand stable, and then we can get out, okay? Easy as that." He _knew_ it really wouldn't be that easy, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that at least reassuring scared, injured teenagers was an area he had _a little_ experience in. "Then you can get out of those wet clothes. I bet that would make you feel a lot better."

Alex blinked at him, but didn't say anything more. It seemed that for the time being, the shock and pain were reigning supreme in his mind—and Nico guessed that he couldn't process much more than that.

Then, the medic came over with a syringe and some of Alex's previous stubbornness flared back to life. He physically pulled back, despite the fact that such a move obviously pained him, eyes widening in terror. "No… no… _no sleep_ …" He broke off into a coughing fit that eventually died down to pained gasps, but it had served his purpose, the medic had stopped.

Adopting a similar position as Nico, the medic crouched down carefully, examining Alex with his eyes. "It won't make you sleep. Promise." He turned the syringe so that Alex could see it fully, but didn't bring it any closer. "It's a mild painkiller, to take the edge of the pain off. We've got to stabilize your hand, and then move you, and that's going to hurt—but this should help a little."

Alex stared at him with cautious lidded eyes, flicking over to Nico at once. Nico gave the slightest nod, encouraging him—they couldn't force him, not without causing irreparable damage. Alex finally jerked his head once in a nod. He didn't say anything as the needle bit into the skin of his lower arm, merely followed every movement with a suspicious, pained expression. Nico was reminded that this wasn't the first time that day Alex had received some sort of injection and said as much to the medic. The benefits outweighed the possible risks though, and within a few minutes, some of the pain lines on his face had smoothed out.

When it became clear that the medic wasn't going to try to inject him with anything else, Alex turned his gaze elsewhere. Despite his fearful protecting, he hadn't once looked at his hand.

The medic rigged up a makeshift splint, trying to move Alex's hand as little as possible, all the while keeping up a running commentary of what he was doing. It seemed to help Alex relax a little more. There wasn't much that could be done in such a primitive setting; the bones would have to be set properly, which would likely require the expertise of a skilled doctor.

Eventually, the medic had done all he could. "Hold on a little longer," he told him. "We'll get you out of here and then find you some stronger painkillers."

Alex's gaze flickered to Nico for a moment, clearly broadcasting the generalized fear and pain he still felt. There was nothing more to be done though.

Nico watched as Alex initially flinched away from the arms trying to pick him up, and then his face suddenly blanched, before his entire body fell limp. The medic was quick to reassure them that the teen had only passed out—nothing immediately life threatening. Perhaps it was merciful to him, because even in unconsciousness he was clearly still in pain.

For now, the immediate danger was gone. They needed to get out; needed to find real medical care.

* * *

Nico remembered very little of the long trek from the building they had been kept hostage in, to the SAS base camp. He had had to be supported the entire way back, having used up all of his reserves of energy in attempting to get through to Alex. None of the corridors had looked familiar, and he had quickly settled into a daze, hardly noticing when the medic had stopped the entire party to give him his own painkiller injection.

The only clear point in his memory was stepping outside for the first time, and finding that it was just the beginning of dawn. The cold wind had brought him back to his senses for a moment, biting into his bare flesh, but even that had died down as someone had helped him carefully drape a blanket of some sort over his shoulders.

After that, he vividly remembered being ushered into the medic's tent, where he had been gently poked and prodded—while on the other side of a divider, Alex had gone through the same thing, though mercifully still unaware.

As soon as they determined that there were no immediate injuries that they could treat, they gave him a stronger painkiller—and the questioning began. _Who was he? What was he doing? Why had he been off base? How long had he been missing? Where did the boy come from? What did he know about the boy? Why was he being tortured?_

His voice was in the middle of breaking, when someone new had joined them in the tent, and Nico was sure he had never been so happy to see a commanding officer. Especially one that he had met before and therefore at least _knew_ of him—and his current status of _missing_.

Granted, finding out that their rescue had been a complete fluke had been a bit of a shock. The SAS had been clearing out what they had assumed was a mostly abandoned base for some minor terrorist group—and had only investigated deeper when they found recent blood in one of the rooms.

Finally, finally, the questioning ended, and they left Nico be. A helicopter would be coming within the hour and they would be moving out as soon as it arrived. There was something distinctly rewarding about knowing that they wouldn't be shoved in with the rest in a standard troop carrier—though perhaps considering their injuries…

After telling a passing medic that he assumed that Alex's surname was Rider, he had been left alone with the teen, to rest, with the knowledge that one of the soldiers was only a shout away, and there were enough monitors on Alex to let anyone know the moment something went wrong.

As earlier, Nico couldn't help but study the strange teen his lot had been thrown in with. Alex looked worse than he had earlier, the bruising around his face in contrast with the stark paleness that encompassed his skin. He was pale and shaking still, despite the fact that they had stripped him of his wet clothes almost as soon as he came in, and wrapped him in layers of blankets. His cough and shallow breathing came and went as well, but that had seemed marginally better as they had pumped him full of painkillers and all sorts of other medications—talking about shock and infection, and who knew what else.

Satisfied with the visual inspection—he wasn't sure where the sudden protective streak and worry for Alex came from—Nico carefully let himself relax. After the medics had examined his back and shoulders, he had been given little option in whether he was going to lie down or not. Sitting had quickly become painful after a handful of minutes—there was no way he would be able to stand a long flight. They were also worried about the actual damage to his muscles.

So, no matter what his pride felt, there was no way he was walking to the helicopter.

He glanced back over at Alex, wishing there was a more comfortable way to lie on his stomach, and was surprised to see him staring back.

Although he clearly wasn't fully awake, Alex was taking in his surroundings with a weary gaze. "Where…we?" He had been quick to spot Nico, and there was no mistaking the relief in his eyes.

"Temporary SAS task back in the north of Germany." That had been a bit of news for him—it was a long ways away from the south of Spain—but Alex hardly looked fazed. "We'll be leaving soon, I suspect."

Alex nodded slightly, as if this were perfectly acceptable and expected. "Who… came?"

"The SAS. They're a branch of the British military—"

"No… what units?"

Nico stared at Alex. Very few members of the public knew more than the basics about the SAS, and it was odd that a mere teenager would think to ask _specifically_ about which units had rescued them. Of course, if he were the son of a SAS member… or some high ranking official… it might explain a little, though certainly not all of it… "D- and F-units."

"Oh… good…" A half smile crossed his face—a sign that his painkillers were working well. His eyes flickered over the blankets that were covering him, before turning back to Nico. "How long… we been here?"

"About an hour. It's been about two since we left the… building." Nico nodded toward Alex the best that he could. "You've been unconscious since then. How are you feeling, anyway?"

Alex blinked, seeming to think about that for a couple of moments. "Hand hurts. Chest, uh, hurts. Hurts to… breathe." A puzzled but dazed expression crossed his face. "And numb. Definitely numb."

Nico nodded. "That would be the painkiller." He felt the hint of numbness himself, but knew that a wrong movement would bring the pain back.

"Figures…"

For a teenager that had been kidnapped and tortured for over three weeks, he certainly seemed to be taking things well. Far too well—especially considering how broken he had been only hours earlier, pushed to his limit. Nico suspected that there would be some kind of backlash whenever Alex truly felt safe again. He wasn't sure he wanted to be around for that… he would either try to cover it up with a heap of sarcasm or it would be a complete breakdown.

Conversation seemed to die out there, with Alex shutting his eyes, and Nico trying to relax his muscles. He wasn't sure how messed up the kid was going to be… sometimes they were more resilient about these types of things than others were. As for Nico, he could already see the psych visits piling up for the next couple of weeks. Ignoring things for the time being seemed to work perfectly well, but he _knew_ that that was not an acceptable coping mechanism. It would likely be well over a month before he was cleared for active duty again… and at the moment, he _really_ wanted to see his unit mates.

A short while later, he heard the sound of the helicopter flying overhead and knew that their ride to freedom was finally arriving. Alex left out a resigned sigh at the sound, no doubt realizing the same thing. Nico couldn't help but smile at that.

The small tent turned into a flurry of activity, as they were being prepped for leaving and then being bustled out, Nico wondered just who would be waiting for the teen once they were home.

Nico himself guessed that he would have several weeks of leave, at home with his family. His parents would likely try to smother him and his older brothers would poke fun at him and show off their progeny. He'd definitely find a way to contact his unit… had to make sure that they weren't doing anything too exciting without him. The normal things in life, he supposed.

Hopefully, it would be just as happy a reunion for Alex.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Sorry for the longer wait, but the past few days have been absolutely crazy. But…. They're out! Hallelujah. But this is really only the beginning. We'll start to see some of the long-term consequences of captivity and torture on Alex in the next several chapters. How'd you all like Nico? He's certainly baffled by Alex… Let me know what you think._**

 ** _S.B.L._**


	6. Onward, Forward

**_Disclaimer: I do not own anything. If I did, I wouldn't have debt..._**

 ** _Chapter 6: Onward, Forward_**

* * *

It was five days before he saw Jones.

He knew she had been there, somewhere in the background, but he had been so comfortably out of it that very little had registered. There were few benefits to being cooped up in the hospital's critical care ward, but warm blankets, unlimited sleep, and painkillers that nearly sedated him were definitely up there at the top. The downside was feeling like absolute death once they moved him out.

He remembered little of his initial days in the ward—or even of the journey from the SAS camp to the hospital. It was all a blur, occasionally interspersed with a doctor or nurse looming over him, asking him questions. He hoped he hadn't rambled too much… but the painkillers seemed to make him less guarded than usual. Case and point, while he had been last talking with… with… _what was his name… what was his name…?_ _Z… Z… Zed…? Zey? Zz…_ Zeb. That was it. _Right…?_

Once the water in his lungs—and subsequent pneumonia that had had all the doctors up in arms and created an almost constant hum around his bed—had cleared up, they had moved him down to the regular ward. And promptly decreased the painkillers. He had been less than happy about that, as such a move meant that his mental function was back up to par. He wished he could have stayed in that blissful area where the real world—and threats to his life—didn't actually exist.

The return to reality meant that he had to acknowledge what had happened—along with the fact that he _remembered_ very little. Only the inevitable nightmares tried to paint pictures in his mind—and most had little to no significance to his waking self. It was an unreal sensation, knowing that the nightmares knew more about the past several weeks than he did in the waking world.

The nurses had also quickly learned that shaking him awake from a nightmare was not the way to deal with things.

Reality also meant that he had to face the injuries that he would be dealing with for months. They had encased his entire arm, from elbow to fingertips, in a hard cast, with no less than seventeen pins and plates holding the bones of his fingers and hand in proper position. It had apparently taken three surgeries that he didn't remember to get it that good.

It hurt like hell, at the best of times. Especially when the painkillers wore off, though he didn't like the fuzzy feeling that they gave him. He felt as if he were trying to function in a fog.

He had seen the surgeon once, and had been told pointblank that he would be very lucky if he got full range of motion back. They were optimistic that it would at least be functional at the end. _There went any aspirations of being a professional pianist…_ Not that he played the piano, of course.

To top off his steadily worsening day—because the painkillers were not working anymore, but had left behind the fuzzy headed feeling—Mrs. Jones herself had shown up to pay a social visit.

"Absolutely not." He glared at her, but the effect was weakened by the fact that he was still tucked into the hospital bed, wearing the regulation flimsy gown, pale as the sheets behind him—apart from the still spectacular bruising that was visible on his face and arms—and only let out of bed for supervised trips to the bathroom. He was still suffering from severe exhaustion and dizziness—attributed to the fact that his lungs had been half-full of water by the time he got to the hospital. They weren't taking any risks, and though he grumbled, he personally agreed.

That didn't change the fact that he didn't agree with Jones' solutions.

She just stared at him, with the same blank gaze that she had seemed to perfect over the months he had known her. "We've been through this before, Alex." She was apparently trying a different approach, with a patient tone of voice, but Alex was having none of it. "Your conditions for staying in your own place were very clear. So long as you kept up with your classes, cooperated with the psychiatrist, and were in _good general health_ , you could live on your own. Through no fault of your own, you are _not_ in good general health anymore—and this is not _me_ saying this, but a judge."

Alex scowled at her. Of course, a judge would do her dirty work. She would have influenced him heavily, no doubt.

"Alex, you have to understand our position. You are unable to use your hand for the time being. Your surgeon said that the cast wouldn't be coming off for several weeks yet, and even then, your range of motion will be quite limited. If someone tries to attack you, you would be at a grave disadvantage. Not to mention that normal everyday tasks are going to be impeded. We really do have your best interests at heart."

Alex huffed, but he _knew_ that arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere. From the set of her face and the tone of her voice, he _knew_ she wasn't going to budge.

That didn't mean he had to be happy about it though.

"Fine."

She didn't smile, but gave him a patronizing look he had come to loathe. "We'll reconsider in a couple of months. This doesn't have to be permanent."

 _Just until they had their agenda taken care of…_

Although Jones made some rather pertinent points, he was convinced he could still take care of himself—much better than anyone MI6 assigned to him could. It wasn't as if his hand made him an invalid…

A quiet click behind him signaled the latest addition of painkillers to his system—all kept on a carefully controlled, automatic system—and he felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. He _hated_ the medication, but it dulled the persistent fire that currently made up his hand and arm.

He scowled as he realized that Jones hadn't missed the slight change either, and her expression changed from patronizing to slight pity.

 _Who knew she still had emotions…?_

"No matter how determined you may be, Alex, you're still only human. You are allowed to feel things."

He refused to meet her gaze, afraid of what else he would find there. He cast around for all the questions he had thought up, trying to get them onto another track of conversation—he knew he had lost that battle. "How… how long was I missing?" For some reason, they hadn't thought to give him a date or anything like that.

"It's been nearly four weeks since your abduction. You were there for just over three, before the SAS stumbled across your position."

His brain caught onto one word. " _Stumbled_?"

Mrs. Jones sighed heavily. "I'm not sure you realize how lucky you are that the SAS infiltrated that building. There were no clues left in your flat—though there were signs of a struggle and blood. No one had placed a hit on you; the criminal world was silent as to your whereabouts. When you turned up, the SAS had no more information, aside from the fact that you had been held in an old base for a Nazi-based terrorist cell and that you had been… tortured."

Alex swallowed and realized his mistake. He had opened up this avenue of conversation, without fully thinking the ramifications through. This was where the questioning began—and he had no desire to rehash the little that he knew. It was bad enough that the memories haunted him in his sleep, after which he had trouble remembering what it was that unnerved him so much.

He clenched his palm, feeling the perspiration start, as his thoughts started bouncing around his head. He didn't know how he was expected to answer anything, when he had trouble remembering it in the first place. He didn't like to ponder the things that he was unsure of.

"Do you know who they were Alex? Why they grabbed _you_?"

His breathing quickened, setting up an ache in his healing ribs. No, he didn't _know_. He didn't know anything about the past couple of weeks. Very little filtered through his nightmares—aside from the sheer panic and terror—and even that he wasn't entirely sure was due to his experiences.

 _"Shall we start with the easy questions again?"_

Alex blinked. The voice was menacing and familiar… It was fuzzy… Why didn't he _know_? What had happened?

The water.

The burning in his lungs.

Alex's breath caught in his throat. _He knew… of course he knew! Of course,_ he knew who they were. They had shouted it had him so many times, mocked him with it. Tried to find out information. Knowing… _knowing…_

It was as if someone had grabbed onto his brain and _yanked_ , pouring memories and sensations into his mind and consciousness. He gasped for breath, feeling a sickly drowning sensation—despite the fact that there was plenty of oxygen—trembling as memories came rushing back and blocking out reality.

 _"We_ know _MI6 is on to us. We know things you couldn't even imagine."_

He jerked away when a hand touched his arm, crashing into something hard. The wave of pain that traveled up his arm brought him back to himself, having jarred it against the bed rails that were supposed to discourage his penchant for wandering. This time, they had prevented him from falling to the floor and further injuring himself.

 _Then_ he remembered what had terrified him. The sinking realization that he wasn't safe anymore—and the key piece of information they had revealed. "There's a mole in MI6."

Mrs. Jones' almost concerned expression, turned to one of minor shock, and the suspicion. "A mole?"

He bobbed his head, cradling his throbbing arm, remembering the taunts from the man. "They knew about our meetings—assumed that I was receiving information… or something." That had been the gist of the questions… right? He remembered their demands for answers…

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "And just who would _they_ be?"

Alex blinked. The name… the name… It had been there one moment, gone the next… _What was the name?_ "He said… uhm… Re… re… _reformed SCORPIA_." The name slid up from a recess of his brain, leaving behind a slippery, unconvinced feeling.

The carefully bland look on Mrs. Jones' face told him more than he wanted to know.

 _She had known_.

Alex's anger flared up, surpassing any emotion he had felt in the past several weeks. "You _knew_?" He spat the words at her, feeling the rush of adrenaline and anger flooded his system. "You _knew_ about them, and you didn't think to _mention_ it to me?"

"There wasn't—"

He shook his head, cutting her off. "They're SCORPIA! How long have they wanted me dead? Not enough time in our weekly meetings?"

"Alex—"

"Don't, _Alex_ , me." He tried to rein in his anger, tried to find the detached calculation that he would need to spit vitriol at her, but it was flying wildly out of control. As if the first time he had let it loose, it was taking on a mind of its own. "You knew about those bastards. You knew they were back. And you didn't even give me any warning. _Let's just keep Alex on his leash, don't tell him anything._ Don't bother telling _me_ that the people who want me dead are back in business!"

Mrs. Jones' lips pressed into a thin line. "That's not—"

He wasn't even listening to her though, gesticulating wildly, as he was convinced the fault of the situation fell more and more on her own shoulders. "No. You just wanted to pretend everything was normal. Forget about the fact that _maybe_ I would survive longer if I actually had some information _for once_. Instead of just leaving it up to luck!" He was close to yelling, and the words were starting to catch in his throat, as he scrambled for breath. "And let's not forget about the _mole_ in the company!"

A glimmer of something in her eye caught his. "Alex, calm—"

It only served to spur him on. "Don't you _dare_ tell me. To. _Calm. Down!_ " His voice hit an unnaturally high point, and he wasn't sure where the anger had turned into abject terror. Terror so complete that he started shivering. "You know! You knew and you didn't say _anything._ And then they decided to kidnap me, because they thought _I_ would have information. Useful information. Then they kept _torturing_ me, because surely, Alex Rider of all people would have MI6's most important intel in his mind!"

Then the coughing hit.

Sharp, sudden pain, that seemed to spread down through his entire chest, seizing up the muscles and tearing his lungs out. Breathing in just wasn't working. He gasped for breath, and with each unsuccessful breath, he felt like his heart had burst into shards, as he scrambled to find air. He scrambled to get away from the drowning sensation in his lungs.

He could hear alarms all around him suddenly going off, as he tried to find the air, but only succeeding in coughing more. One alarm signified the rapid—far too rapid—beating of his heart. _It was still beating…_ Another alarm was a mere high-pitched whine that seemed to go along with his lack of air.

He couldn't breathe and the crushing sensation was back.

SCOPRIA was back.

 _"I'd say sorry, but really, you brought this on yourself."_

They were going to kill him.

 _"When did MI6 start investigating our presence?"_

Jones had kept the information from him.

 _"Do you know how many bones there are in your hand, Rider?"_

There was no way he was going to be normal again…

He still couldn't _breathe_.

A hand pushed him back against the bed, pressing down on his chest, and he instinctively fought against it. They won in the end though, because he was still fighting against the lack of air in his lungs.

Then, as a heavy feeling started to drift up his arms, his panic notched up another couple of degrees.

He tried to struggle, he really did, but it was all too much for him.

He just wanted to be alone.

Why couldn't they just leave him…?

Someone slid a mask of cool plastic across his mouth and nose, causing a rush of air across his face. His muscles relaxed not long after, and _finally_ , he was able to breathe again.

The murmur of voices wasn't enough to bring him out of his sudden exhaustion, but the panic had died down considerably—forcibly. He let himself slip asleep without even thinking about it, just followed the pull of whatever drugs they had used on him.

A small part wondered how much he would be able to remember later…

For now though, he slept.

* * *

He was beyond exhausted. His chest still hurt—though not as much as before—his shoulder was protesting the weight of the cast on his arm, and he felt as if someone were taking his brain and running it through a masher before placing it back and waking him up. All in all, he was in a rather bad mood—which wasn't unusual for the past week.

The doctors and nurses had seemed to take his mood swings in stride, only chiding him when it got to be what they perceived as self-destructive—such as when he tried to avoid taking the pain medications. They didn't believe him when he said it just made everything seem worse. He couldn't stand the fuzzy feeling that inevitably overcame him.

They had also patiently tried to explain to him that he had worked himself into a state of a panic attack, exacerbated by the fact that his lungs had still been healing. They claimed that it wouldn't get magically better if he didn't do anything about it—like talk to his therapist, but Alex had just resolved to never let it get that far again.

It had worked relatively well so far. He had pretty much just emotionally shut down.

That hadn't stopped a resurgence of the same feelings several days later, when something someone had said or done had set him off again. Only this time, he had managed to keep it under control. They hadn't even noticed.

Of course, to him, it brought even more questions. Questions that he wasn't sure how to answer.

Now, days later, he was waiting for the MI6 approved escort that would take him to his new residence. His new prison. What a wonderful birthday present. Not. Mrs. Jones had made it clear that he wasn't returning to his previous flat, claiming that everything he had need of was already moved out. He read between the lines and gathered that they hadn't expected to have him coming back to the country in anything but a body bag. But what were they supposed to expect, after so many weeks…?

Although he had fought tooth and nail, there had been no changing Jones' mind. After assuring him that she would _personally_ look into the presence of a mole in the company—and hadn't he been angry to find out that she was only _now_ doing something—she had bulldozed on with her plans of placing him with an agent for the foreseeable future. Until he was deemed competent again.

The only _small_ relief had been that the change in residence had only been that. He would still attend the same school—though he was sure he would get a whole boatload of strange looks for missing over a month of school and then turning up with a casted arm and hand and healing bruises. But at the very least, he wouldn't be starting all over again. He hated that.

They had finally discharged him, with strict instructions to continue taking all the medications—which he wouldn't—and to come back in 6-8 weeks for a checkup on his hand—which he would. After that, they had taken him to a nondescript lobby and told to wait for further instructions.

After nearly an hour of waiting, a stereotypical suit stepped into the lobby. Alex sincerely hoped that that wasn't to be his new guardian. The man looked like he could spit nails while torturing a defenseless kitty—not exactly the type of person Alex wanted to find himself with for weeks.

"Rider?"

Alex couldn't resist rolling his eyes— _who else would I be?_ —before nodding.

"I'm to escort you to your new residence."

Alex scowled, but followed the man out of the hospital and into the brisk February air. It was the first time he remembered being out of doors in the past month and a half… they hadn't dared let him out for supervised walks, on account of the chill being too much for his lungs. As it was, they expected him to stay bundled up for a while, unless he really wanted another coughing fit.

At least his guardian seemed to be elusive for the time being. Perhaps there was hope…? _No, probably not_. He slid into the backseat of the regulation car, being careful of his sling and cast, and settled for scowling at the world in general.

After all, if MI6 hadn't thrown him into the life of a spy at such an unnaturally young age, he wouldn't have ever had enemies that didn't like to stay dead—or enemies that wanted his blood for revenge…

He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and instead focused on the passing familiar London streets. It felt like forever since he had been in the heart of London. Forever since he had last been a patient at St. Dominic's—though in reality, it had hardly been six months. He hadn't gone anywhere near there since _then_ , avoiding the memories like the plague.

He wished he could do the same with MI6 headquarters, but Mrs. Jones had called him in far too regularly for that to happen. Perhaps if he had been a model student… but being in trouble at school and with the shrink was nothing new as far as he was concerned, although Mrs. Jones had always insisted that _something_ was going to have to change.

It seemed she had gotten her wish after all.

They drove through the busy streets of the city, slowly making their way out of the heart and into the suburbs. It seemed strange, as they passed flat complex after flat complex, until they turned into a rather ordinary looking residential area. Cookie cutter houses, with the only variation being in the color of the trim. Each house seemed to have its own 4.6-meter yard, complete with tacky yard ornament (their choice of garden gnome, flamingo, rabbit, or toad), and fenced in by a short white or grey fence. It seemed that expensive cars were the norm as well.

 _Plenty of joyriding options? Or the need for a quick getaway?_

He wasn't completely surprised when they pulled into the driveway of one of the cookie cutter houses, nor when his escort expected him to follow along, like a lost puppy. Scowl firmly fixed on his face, he followed the man up the front steps of the house, taking into account the few security risks of the surrounding places. There were no conveniently placed trees or other such things near the second floor. While that would not provide enemies with easy access, it also meant that escaping from there would likely mean injuries. As well, the fence was nothing more than decoration and Alex doubted that it would hold up very well to a determined machinegun.

His thoughts were cut off when the front door opened. They were both ushered into the house by a middle-aged man, and while Alex couldn't see anything obviously wrong with him, he wondered just what had happened that this man had been saddled with _him_.

"Markus Fletch, this is Alex." The nameless suit gestured in a careless manner toward Alex. "You should have already been briefed on his situation."

Alex gave him his best scowl, but the man, Markus Fletch, seemed unaffected by it. _Hmm_ … it seemed that Jones had warned him. Alex tried not to let his discomfort at the strange surroundings show, and instead waited, scowling, for the suit to leave, and for _Markus_ to show him to his room.

It didn't take long.

After several long moments of sizing each other up, Markus led the way up the stairs to a rather unremarkable room. The walls were a greyish green color, with a stark white bedspread and an empty desk. _Unimpressive_. But it was to be his _home_ for the time being.

Not that he really intended to stick around for much longer than the two to three months it took to get his hand functioning again.

"Mrs. Jones said that you'd be starting school up again at the end of the weekend. She said you've been out of class for a while, so the papers in the desk are your make up work." Markus leaned against the doorframe, studying Alex with a critical gaze. "With school I'll take you in, in the mornings, and pick you up as soon as classes get out in the afternoon. No dallying. I'll let you know when meals are served. Other than that… it's up to you. This isn't a _babysitting_ service, so I won't treat you like a baby. You're responsible for taking your meds, but if I find out that you've been irresponsible, that will have to be changed. Don't test me."

They glared each other down, Alex furious at the insinuation. Clearly, the briefing hadn't been very complete.

Just as well.

Alex wasn't going to give him anything more. But Jones' request that he at least try to make things work was ringing in his ears. He had _claimed_ that he would be respectful, but the problem was, anyone who tried to treat him like a normal teenager was _patronizing_ him. They didn't understand that he had been through too much to be considered _normal_. "And what exactly did you do to get saddled with a poor job like this from MI6?"

The man smirked, matching Alex's scowl bit for bit. "I'm not MI6. I'm MI5. Taking on bratty spoiled kids who've managed to hack off the wrong people… well… that's my job." He turned and left, but not without throwing a casual remark back over his shoulder. "And so far, you seem to be the epitome of that definition."

Alex dearly wished for something to throw at the agent, but his things were currently bundled up in his duffle, making throwing a bit difficult. Instead, he settled for slamming his door with as much force as he could possibly manage.

He didn't trust that man, but then, he didn't trust anyone anymore.

Yet, this seemed to be the arrangement that Jones had wanted from the beginning.

He was beginning to think she was more than a bit off her rocker than he first suspected.

With nothing better to do, he lay down on the bed, being careful of his arm all the while. He was going to have to figure out a way to convince Jones that this whole idea was pointless. He had been perfectly capable of living on his own, only months earlier, and as of right now, he didn't trust anyone MI6 appointed to keep him any safer.

Alex swore he was going to make Markus Fletch's life as miserable as possible. Maybe _then_ , Mrs. Jones would finally reconsider.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Safe and sound. Or is he…?_**

 ** _Getting this chapter going was actually rather difficult. You'll see why in a couple of chapters. Let me know what you think or suspect._**

 ** _Just a note, it might be a bit longer before the next update, as I am leaving for a trip in a little while and internet access will be quite limited._**

 ** _S.B.L._**


	7. Glimpses

**_Disclaimer: If I were really Anthony Horowitz, I wouldn't bother to make fanfiction of my own work. I'd write it like this in the first place..._**

 ** _Chapter 7: Glimpses  
_**

* * *

The first few days in the house had been awkward to say the least. Alex did his best to avoid _Markus_ , while plotting his revenge at the same time. He wasn't quite sure what that would be, but… perhaps it would serve twofold and get a message across to Jones as well. He didn't need to be _babysat_.

Everything about the man unnerved him—though he suspected that it was more because their personalities clashed, rather than anything overly sinister. The house was too noisy, everything seemed out of place, and he felt like a complete outsider. Although his flat had been remarkably empty and impersonal, it had been _his_ place. Here… the smallest thing seemed to distract his already distracted mind, conjuring up plots of grandeur and fear. Something he definitely didn't need more of in his life.

While the days had been miserable, with Alex wanting nothing to do with the man who was now supposedly his guardian, the nights were the worst. He only took a half dose of the painkillers he was supposed to be taking—not liking the hazy and deadened sensations he felt while on it—meaning that his arm _always_ ached. At night, it just seemed to grow worse.

That, coupled with the increase in intensity of the nightmares… meant he was grouchy and miserable in the mornings. He couldn't risk sleeping during the day either—as the nightmares weren't confined to the night time. So instead, he attempted to catch up on all the missed coursework he had—most of which were in classes that he had already been struggling in.

He held no illusions that his grades were going to be abysmal for the term, something that he _didn't_ need. After all, Jones was a stickler for grades, and he had been barely scraping by with the minimum before. The only classes he had been somewhat succeeding in were the languages and government classes. Certainly not the core classes that he needed if he had any hope of getting anywhere in life.

By the time Monday had rolled around, Alex was most definitely not looking forward to going back to the school. It had been weeks since he had last attended and he was sure that his classmates—no matter how uninteresting he had been before—were going to try to hound him with questions. Who knew when the rumors would start up again…?

He didn't even manage to start his morning out on the right foot. He had woken far too early, with a nightmare cutting into his much-needed sleep. The usual feelings of disorientation and confusion quickly passed, yet once more, he wasn't entirely sure what he had dreamt about. He congratulated himself on keeping Markus from noticing as he stumbled into the shower at only a mildly insane hour. His excuse was, since he had the cast, showering was more difficult.

Alex had proceeded through breakfast with the silent treatment that had grown almost comfortably familiar in the past two days. He took his medicine as ordered, palming the second painkiller, as well as the anxiety medication. So long as he kept up the pretense, no one needed to know that he wasn't taking _everything_ he was supposed to. After all, Markus had said that _he_ was responsible for himself.

After breakfast, Alex grabbed his school bag, complete with his few attempts at catchup work, and followed Markus out to the car. The drive was silent, and Alex entertained himself with memorizing the turns needed to get from the house to the school. It wasn't very far away; he could have easily walked it in twenty minutes—if they ever allowed him that luxury. Unfortunately, it was also in the opposite direction of where his apartment had been. He doubted that he would be able to sneak out of the house—which meant that if he wanted to go back there, he'd have to do it some other way.

"I'll be here when you get out of classes," Markus said, breaking the silence as they pulled up in front of the school. "If anything goes wrong, you have my number. Don't leave the school for any reason. And _behave_. I don't want to be called in because you did something stupid."

Alex scowled at the man. For a _moment_ , he had almost seemed human. Then he tacked on the _stupid_ comment, and Alex's estimation of him plummeted right back down to where it had been before. "Yeah, whatever." _As if you'd be any help anyway._ Before the man could say anything else, he climbed out of the car and gave the door a resounding slam. It only succeeded in drawing curious gazes his way and a glare from Markus.

His lips pressed into a thin line, suddenly feeling like a bug under a microscope as people looked in his direction. He could almost hear them start whispering. _Rider's back. It's been so long… Look at his arm…_ He wanted to shudder, but he forced it down. Forced it away.

 _Can't show weakness_.

He slipped into the crowd of students, feeling his barriers go up immediately. Some were staring, while others continued as if he weren't even there. After a while though, he had blended well enough into the background. His shoulders still twitched whenever someone came too near him, or swept inside his bubble of protection, but for a few seconds at least, he felt invisible.

He felt absurdly protective of his hand and arm, holding it as close to his body as he could manage with the sling. Just the mere thought of someone brushing up against it wrong had him tensing in advance, and he wondered how he was going to get through the day. How he was going to pretend to be normal. Any progress toward that _normal_ he had made before had been reset.

It felt as if all eyes were on him. Watching him. Waiting for… _something_. But whenever he looked, all the other students seemed to be ignoring his existence.

He knew he had been paranoid before, but this was just…

He swallowed, weaving his way through the crowd, avoiding the glances in his direction, avoiding the looks—even from the younger students—that wondered _why_ he was back. Even though there were still ten minutes before his class began, he slid into the last seat in the back corner. At least in _this_ class, there wouldn't be anyone behind him. And if he were lucky, the seats closest to him would be empty as well. Such was the life of being the strange aloof enigma in the class. He knew it wasn't healthy—he _had_ to listen to the psychologist, so he couldn't help but recognize the little truth in their words about his paranoia.

Taking what he hoped was a calming breath he settled into his chair and tried to work a little more on the back coursework. Classes hadn't even started and he already felt like he was walking on a tight rope. A rope that was bound to vanish as soon as it became inconvenient.

And as probability went, the day was only going to get worse.

* * *

The day just kept getting worse.

The moment his last class before lunch recess got out, Alex was the first out of the room and into the rapidly filling halls. Sometime in the middle of the last class, the all too familiar catch in his chest and allover panicked feeling had come over him. It had been all he could do to not leave the class in the middle of the period. Although being in the middle of the halls in the midst of the hoards was not any better, he knew it was the fastest route to a place his brain had tagged as safe.

Previous experience with the school told him that there were few _safe_ locations during the lunch recess. However, only those that were cramming for exams tended to venture into the library during that hour. Most everyone took that hour to find human companionship. Alex wanted none of that. He wanted to be alone.

It was with a keen sense of desperation that he edged into the back of the library without the librarian noticing. If no one knew he was there, it would be best. By then, he felt the icy grip in his chest as he struggled to breathe—not because of any physical problems, but because that was just how his body reacted. Anyone who saw him might have thought that he had just gotten out of PE, or something of the sort, and he was out of breath. Or they might have caught on…

As it was, he was struggling to bring himself together, feeling as if someone were pulling him apart at the seams.

 _Not now!_

This was _not_ the time for this.

Only the small part of his brain screaming at him to stay in place, kept him from bolting from the school all together. Rationally, he knew that that would only succeed in bringing to light his current plight to _them_. He wasn't going to give them that. He had hidden it well enough.

His free hand gripped his hair, trying to calm down his frantic breathing.

Reason told him that panicking was only making things worse.

 _"…you hardly try to defend yourself…"_

His brain told him there was no other way.

Reason told him that if he would just stop and breathe for a moment, it would get better.

 _The air was choking in his lungs… It had been so long…_

His brain told him the air was gone.

 _"…you'll tell us, it'll just take some_ time _."_

He pressed himself into the furthest corner of the library, where there no windows, no doors, and most importantly, no watchful eyes. Only a worn and abandoned chair, pressed up against the wall.

His refuge.

Reason told him that someone nearby might be able to help.

 _"…the mighty have fallen…"_

His brain told him that such a thing was impossible. _No one could help_.

He tried to gasp in more air—and this time it worked—before sinking back into the chair.

He shuddered, cold seeping into his bones, as reality reasserted itself around him. The panic and paranoia were still there, but lessened to the point where he could actually _listen_ to the rational side. He _was_ in control. He wasn't _there_ anymore. He pulled his jacket out of his bag and slid it over his shoulders—not being able to slip his casted arm through without difficulty.

A glance at his watch told him that he had just over thirty minutes to regain his wits about him and pretend that everything was normal. This time, when he took in a deep breath, it served to relax him a little more.

For now, he just felt numb, and like he was missing pieces of the puzzle.

His paranoia in classes was at an all-time high—worse than when he had started at the school. Even sitting in the very back of his classes, he had still felt subjected to the stares of his peers—and really, they weren't his peers. They were essentially _babies_ compared to what he had already been through. They would never survive in his world.

The last class of the morning though had apparently brought him to his tipping point. Very few people had had the guts to ask him about his hand—he had given them a terse story about some crushing accident at work, before ignoring them—but there were always one or two that tried to stare at him the entire class. The last class had messed with his preferred seating arrangement, forcing him into the middle of the room, and the staring classmates were that much closer.

He had twitched all throughout the class, trying desperately to portray a façade of normal. Until the teacher had gone off on a tangent talking about slogans and catch phrases of different groups—and latched onto one that had been far too close to a memory than he liked.

Even now, with nearly a full thirty minutes of distance, he shuddered. The phrase had been drilled into his mind over the past several months, made worse in the past several weeks, and was once again at the forefront of his mind.

 _SCORPIA never forgives. SCORPIA never forgets._

* * *

It was a cold day.

At the moment though, with his heart racing—as he was sure he would be found out—he didn't really notice the bite to the wind anymore.

It had been over a week since the new arrangement had started and he liked to think that he had played the part of annoyed yet bratty teen well enough to fool Markus into thinking that he was a normal teenager. It was a mask he was far too used to playing—and sometimes, he wasn't sure where the mask ended and his real thoughts and feelings started.

Although there had always been an annoyed snap to his words when they conversed—which was rare, because Alex hardly said anything nowadays—there had slowly come the acknowledgement that Alex hadn't strayed from his orders. Or so Markus thought.

After a week of playing nice though, Alex had _plans_. He had no desire to lie down and roll over for MI6. They might be his guardians on paper, but they had _no_ control over him. He was quickly running out of options though, and he had to admit that Jones had at least been right with the fact that things couldn't continue as they had been.

He disagreed with her solution though.

It was long past time to take things into his own hands.

It was something he had toyed with long before he was kidnapped. Although for most of the time he had played by Jones' rules and let them know whenever he was going places, there were a handful of times he had dropped the mobile and struck out on his own—if only for a couple of hours. It was during those excursions that the plans had started forming, and he had started collecting… No one had been the wiser.

Now, he needed to get them back.

He knew MI6 still had possession of the flat, but most of his things had been returned to him. However, he knew how to pick a lock— _thank you, Ian_ —and had hidden things around the flat. No one would have found the items, because they wouldn't have seen them. _That_ was just how he liked it.

After a week of playing the perfect student, he had skipped out of his afternoon classes and taken to the streets—making sure to ditch his mobile in his customary spot in the library. If things went according to plan, he would be back at the school before anyone really started looking for him. Then, he would be free to implement the next step of his plan.

He pulled the hood up his jacket up and followed the stream of foot traffic though the familiar roads.

No one would notice him.

* * *

Only a couple blocks away from his flat, the entire plan spiraled wildly out of control.

In the alleyway he had taken dozens of times— _Mistake! Stupid!_ —an arm reached out and grabbed him in a choke hold.

Panic immediately flooded his system, floundering for a solution and a quick way to talk himself out of the situation.

"And just what do you think you're doing here?" The voice spoke into his ear, casting a rush of warm air that sent shivers up his spine. "I think the little birdie is a little far away from his safe house. Don't you?"

Alex forced back a shudder, trying to will the utter panic away. This was _not_ MI6— _or MI5_. They had not caught up with him. They were not getting after him for breaking his agreement. _This_ was someone else.

"Thought it would be wise to tempt fate, huh?" The grip tightened ever so slightly, cutting off the air. "I guess you're stupider than we thought."

Alex clawed at the arm, but it was pointless. With one arm useless and immobilized in the sling, he wasn't much of a threat to anyone. He couldn't fight—and Mrs. Jones' words of warning came back to him. _This_ was why they didn't want him on his own…

"Let's get straight to the point, shall we Rider? We know all about you. We know your history—after all; it wasn't _much_ of a secret. We know all about the people you've been in contact with—so don't bother trying to play coy." The pressure released slightly. "And don't even _think_ about trying to turn around. I'll let you go… _eventually_."

Alex swallowed, trying to calm the panic in his system. He needed to be able to think rationally. He had to take every opportunity given to him.

"So, how about we remind you about the little deal we made, huh?"

Alex blinked.

 _The deal…_

 _The deal…_

 _The deal…_

 _"Tell us, Rider! Where can we find it?"_

His stomach dropped as hazy memories of the… _first week…?_ of the interrogation drifted through his mind. The last day was, for once, almost clear, but the other days were the usual vague feelings. Unfocused. Indistinct.

He couldn't remember any of it.

"We told you, you'd come to rue the day that you crossed us—and what do you think you did by denying us the information that is rightfully ours?"

 _"You want this to end? Just tell us."_

 _"I don't know! I don't know! I don't know!"_

 _Pain. Fiery. Disconnected_.

"Then you got lucky, so we thought we should give you another chance to makes things right. You _know_ where the information is. You _know_ what it is and how to get it."

 _"You know what to do, Rider."_

"So, I suggest, before you try to plan any kind of _smart_ move that you hand it over. Or we might just have to take you back for some… _reconditioning_."

Alex gasped for air, as the grip was released, falling to his knees at the sudden rush of air.

"We'll be in contact Rider." A hand shoved a paper into his pocket. "Don't think we don't know where you're staying. You know what we're looking for, so we'll give you a chance to redeem yourself. You're living on borrowed time, Rider."

He didn't even try to turn around, still trying to gasp for air. He heard the crunch of gravel as whoever it was, slipped away. After a moment, there was the sound of a car speeding away in the opposite direction.

His limbs were shaking, his heart was racing, and the sense of impending doom was crushing the few thoughts that were still tumbling coherently in his mind. On automatic, he nearly ran the last couple of blocks to his old flat complex, stumbled up the stairs, and picked the lock with a disoriented and unfocused determination that would have impressed anyone.

He didn't care though.

The threat was ringing in his ears.

 _He was supposed to_ know _the answers…_

The uncontrollable panic washed over him as the door shut behind him, and he sank down onto the floor as he tried to forget just how messed up his life really was.

* * *

 ** _A/N: I'm sorry. So sorry! Life got crazy, my computer fizzled out (thank goodness for dropbox, or you'd all be really mad), and I've had limited access to a computer that was not education related. So... truth be told, I'm not sure when the next installment will be out, as I don't know when I'm going to have access again... I promise, this has not been abandoned! Now, onto the part that really matters..._**

 ** _Crazy Alex, I know… Get used to it. This is actually a pretty key part of the story. It will be really bad here for at least another chapter, but then it'll get just a tiny bit better. Promise. So please, leave a review and let me know what you thought. Theories as to what is actually going on. What you think is coming next.  
_**

 ** _Until next time,_**

 ** _S.B.L._**


	8. Motion

**_Disclaimer: Not Horowitz. If I were, I certainly wouldn't be moving back to South America again…_**

 ** _Chapter 8: Motion_**

* * *

A new guardian.

A new house.

A new, unfamiliar, bedroom.

But nothing had actually changed.

It had been just over a month and a half since he had been released from the hospital; nearly three months since he had been attempting to be a regular student in the first place. He had given up since then, watching his grades in almost every class suffer dismally as his concentration left him, as his classmates segregated him more and more, and as even the teachers started getting after him for his inattention. He knew it was only a matter of time before they decided that he wasn't a suitable student and kicked him out.

What would happen then, he didn't know.

He had gone through five different guardians, each one lasting a shorter amount of time than the last. Markus had been the longest—perhaps because with him, Alex had _almost_ tried—lasting for three weeks. But then _something_ had happened—and Alex couldn't for the life of him remember what. All he knew what that the resulting confrontation had led to shattered china plates and Alex escaping to his old flat. They found him there hours later and the MI6 agents had dragged him to his new placement.

That had been the start of the end.

The second guardian had lasted _almost_ two weeks, but the third, fourth, and fifth… not even a week. Each time, _something_ happened. A blank space within his brain. Some sort of attack—from Alex—on his guardian. This resulted in MI6 agents hunting him across London, usually finding him in some rundown location hours later, with little recollection of how he got there.

Jones—and his psychologist—had tried to give him a spiel about anger management, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had bigger problems on his mind than whatever the problems were with his guardians. Most notably the _lack_ of memory and… the _other_ aspects.

Twice more, _they_ had found him, tracked him down, and threatened him. They wanted information, but what information he didn't know. They claimed he did. But he _didn't_. And even if he did, he wasn't going to give it to them. He wasn't going to turn traitor—because either way, it was going to get him killed in the end.

He was now onto his sixth guardian, a middle-aged woman who seemed more like a drill sergeant than anything else. And an MI6 employee, as well. He suspected that it was Jones' latest attempt at getting him to behave. To _cooperate_.

The first day had already gone terribly—his attempts at giving her the silent treatment had only succeeded in her all but trapping him in the dining room after their first supper. He had snapped at her, she had snapped back with equal force, and in the end, he had gone to bed with woozy thoughts because she prevented him from palming the medication he didn't want to take.

In all honesty, the medication only made things worse, not better. He could deal with the pain—it only throbbed now, after all. The anxiety was manageable—because he had dealt with it well enough before. He _couldn't_ deal with the fuzziness that the medications gave him, the indistinctness to his thoughts that made everything feel like a threat.

Even though he had gone to bed, every creak and noise in the house had had him staying awake for hours with the sheer paranoia that _they_ were coming to get him again. After all, he hadn't been safe in his own, protected, flat, so why would it be different here?

That morning, he had stumbled out of bed and into the shower in a sheer daze. His limbs had been shaking in a way that screamed of prolonged sleep deprivation—but he had to function in classes. He couldn't take the meds. There was no way. Not if he had any hope of gleaning _anything_ in his classes that morning. However, he had a feeling that _Madam Sergeant_ —because he had stopped paying attention long before they had even been formally introduced—wasn't going to take no for an answer.

And he, unfortunately, held no illusions that she couldn't strong-arm him into doing exactly what she wanted—which involved him being a submissive and respectful teenager. Everything he wasn't.

A hand banged on his door, startling him out of the exhausted daze he had fallen into. "I expect you downstairs in ten minutes!" She screeched, "Don't make me come get you _again_."

He shuddered at the memory. She had all but dragged him downstairs the night before. They had gone over the standard rules of the house, most of which included her snapping at him for his continued inattention. He couldn't help it though. There were too many windows and she had placed him right in front of _all_ of them.

Then had come the battle of wills. Which, for the first time in a long time, he had lost miserably at.

Perhaps if he tried to play by her rules… he could get away without taking the meds.

Grabbing the little coursework he had managed to accomplish before the meds had done away with his reasoning capabilities, he stuffed it into his backpack, and then headed downstairs. At the very least, he could eat something and maybe pacify her for the time being.

Somehow, he doubted that it would work.

* * *

The room seemed indistinct at the edges, giving it a strange quality. Like a dream state. Even the chatter and sound of his fellow classmates seemed distorted, to the extent that he felt fearfully vulnerable to them.

 _Anything could happen_.

He inevitably flinched at every out of place sound—something that was frequent in such a place.

This was the fifth day he had attended school in such a state, but a week since his reasoning capabilities had shut off. He knew that much, but beyond that…

He couldn't focus anymore, couldn't even pretend to hold interest in his classes, because everything was a trigger for fear and panic. Even sitting in the back, with his chair as close to the comfort of the wall as possible, hadn't lessened the sheer terror of going into his classes, of going among the students that seemed to think that everything was okay.

He couldn't deal with it.

His skin felt stretched tight against his bones, itchy and restless. Waiting. _Waiting for the next move._

He hadn't turned in his homework in more than a week, because it was all piling up in his room, not done. Not even touched. He couldn't think _anywhere_. Everything, even nonthreatening actions toward him, were taken as a bodily threat. He fought against it, a small part of his brain rebelling, but he couldn't break out of it.

He knew it was the meds.

There was no doubt in his mind.

But _Madam Sergeant_ had been exacting. She didn't so much as give him _time_ to regain his wits—even in the evening. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, she all but forced fed him the medications. To the point where he almost went along willingly, because that was the point, right? It was supposed to help.

Supposed to make him feel better.

But it wasn't.

Only a small portion of his brain tried to rebel. He had tried so hard in those first few days, even to the point of throwing it up. _She_ had caught him at it—and only forced him to take more. That same afternoon, she had showed up with a _new and improved_ version—one that lasted longer, and ensured his continued compliance. Claimed that because he was throwing up, he was clearly in still too much pain. She even had proof of the order from MI6… and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Someone seated next to him was talking abnormally loudly—chattering on about someone or another—grating at his already frayed nerves. And classes hadn't even started.

 _Not a threat._ Yet it felt like it.

Alex gripped his hair, trying to block out the crashing waves of sound and sensation around him.

He couldn't _think_.

He couldn't _breathe_.

Something was going to happen.

He knew it.

 _They_ had found him again. Pouncing while he was hiding in his spot in the library during the lunch recess the day before. They had demanded answers—telling him that they were going to go looking themselves soon.

 _Looking…?_

 _Looking for what?_

 _He couldn't remember…_

But yet… He couldn't let that happen.

There was… there was… information that in the wrong hands would only serve to get a lot of people killed.

But he didn't know any of it.

Didn't remember.

Someone threw down a book next to him and he flinched. He could feel people watching him. Not his classmates. _Them_. _They_ were there, waiting for him to try something. He could _feel_ it.

The windows weren't safe.

The doors weren't safe.

Nowhere was _safe_.

Class started, the momentary silence deafening, and only served in increase his anxiety rather than decrease it. The usually unheard sounds, sounded louder than ever before. The squeak as someone rocked in their chair. The tap of someone clicking their pen impatiently. The scratch of pencils on paper, by those that actually cared about the class. Eventually, the teacher's voice picked up, but it blended into the background noise, until it was nothing more than a blur of sound. There was the sound of people fidgeting in chairs, doors down the hall opening and shutting. The sounds of someone rummaging through their bag, metal clinking on metal— _a gun! A gun!_ —and pulling out a set of fine pens amongst a handful of coins.

Alex bit back the small whimper of relief, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. It had never been this bad before. His nerves felt stretched taunt, his heartbeat racing. A couple of classmates glanced at him strangely, and he sunk down in his seat, trying to drown out the noises of the classroom. The perfectly normal noises of people carrying out normal, average lives. The sounds of everyone, except himself.

He felt sick to his stomach.

 _"You're not listening Rider. I thought you of all people would know better than that."_

He jerked in his seat, and for a moment, the normal colors and sounds of the classroom reasserted themselves around him—then the insidious voice was back at his ear.

 _"We've given you so many warnings… Maybe it's time for a little…_ retraining _? You apparently didn't learn last time."_

He swallowed, and the girl sitting across from him gave him a strange look.

 _"Let's start with something basic, Rider."_

"Rider!"

He blinked. That was his teacher.

Said teacher was scowling down at him and he sunk further into his seat. "If you would _please_ get your head out of the clouds and join the rest of us mere mortals here in class." The entire class laughed at that, and Alex ducked his head, fighting down the dual sensations of embarrassment and terror. "Perhaps you'd like to give us your opinion on the readings from last night?"

He felt like he couldn't get any lower without physically sliding out of his seat, yet he _still_ felt like a target. "No, ma'am."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, before turning away. "See me after class Rider."

His palms sweated at that. No fast escape. He'd be trapped.

He gripped his hair, trying to stamp down on the rising panic.

He _knew_ it was ridiculous.

Chalk scratched across the board at the front of the room, drowning out the other sounds in his hearing. The haziness was reasserting itself around him, dulling the images of his fellow classmates. Turning their blurry images into threatening caricatures of children.

He swallowed.

 _"So slow Rider."_

 _"Don't want to have to start over, do we?"_

 _"We can break you."_

 _"We've done it before."_

 _"Don't make us go looking for it ourselves. Then you'll_ never _know just how much we know."_

His breath was already coming in pants… the hazy blurriness of the room only adding to the suffocating feeling.

His head was pounding.

He had to get out.

 _"We went easy last time. Next time'll be worse. You might as well give us the information now."_

There was no way he could last through this anymore.

 _"Where are the files, hmm? You know."_

He hit his tipping point.

With nary a glance for his classmates or teacher, he all but ran out of the room. He didn't even turn back when he heard the teacher call after him. He just kept running—made all the more awkward by the presence of the cast and sling.

He burst out the doors of the school, gasping in the chilly air, trying to bring a little bit of sense back to his mind.

He _knew_.

Knew exactly what he needed to do. For one blissful moment, he clearly knew what _they_ wanted and how to keep them from getting it. He had to do _something_. What better way to make sure that they never got their hands on the information than to get rid of that information himself. They wouldn't have any other avenues to follow. It would be gone.

 _Gone_.

He dodged out of the parking lot, before pounding down the street in his off balanced run. He now knew exactly where he needed to go. He knew exactly how long it would take him to get there, how long it would be before anyone tried to catch up to him… How long before someone tried to stop him. He would just have to be faster.

He ducked onto a side street, hearing a car coming up behind him, but didn't bother to change his pace. _They_ would get him. _They_ would find the information. _No one_ could be trusted. After all, MI6 had always failed him before, and it seemed like they were doing it again now.

The haziness of his surroundings made it impossible to distinguish threat from ally, and he placed _everything_ into the threat category. Everything spun around him, twisting and turning on an axis that wasn't in alignment with the rest of the world. His running turned into more of a stumble as he tried to force his way through the daze that pressed in on him from all sides.

 _"Where are the_ Gemini _files? Hmm? Where are_ Ian Rider's _files?"_

He had only one goal in his mind. Make it back to his house—to Ian's office.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Once again, so sorry for the delay. I should hopefully have my computer issues fixed within the next week or so, and then we should be able to get back onto a semi-normal posting schedule. It will be finished. Anyway…_**

 ** _Yes, yes, I know. The chapter was shorter than usual. But honestly, I could only do so much. Gotta keep you in suspense somehow, right? Hopefully the desperation and confusion of his thoughts were apparent and not just confusing. You have no idea how many drafts I have of that chapter… Let me know what you think!_**

 ** _S.B.L._**


	9. Hidden

**_Disclaimer: Clearly I am not Horowitz, as I hardly have any money to my name._**

 ** _Chapter 9: Hidden_**

* * *

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but the sheer normality to the neighborhood seemed out of place—especially to his panic filled brain. He hadn't been back in _months_ , yet even through the twisty haziness of his vision, he _knew_ that nothing had changed at the house.

The neighborhood was deserted—as was expected in the middle of the morning on a workday—and no one appeared as he stumbled up the sidewalks. He slid in through the side, hopping the fence and barely preventing himself from using his casted arm for balance. It was an unsteady landing, but he wavered his way across the lawn.

If he were lucky…

 _Yes_.

There was a key hidden underneath a piece of false sod, left over from Ian's insistence that there be a way to get in at all times that wasn't immediately obvious to burglars. Of course, he might as well have been talking about terrorists for all it mattered… Whatever the case, the key was still there, and it was almost too easy to creep into the house. Alex was just _waiting_ for the surprise attack.

Now that he was here, his limbs took up a new sort of trembling, as exhaustion crept though his bones and tried to seep into the muscle, protesting the necessary movements. _Someone_ would be lying in wait. They wanted the information so badly—he doubted that they would just give up now. And they had known _so much_ already…

His plan hadn't stretched so far as to determine what he was going to do once he got to the house. Instead, he stared at the emptiness of the place. The furniture was still there, right where they had left it so many months ago, only now the pieces were covered with dust covers and a thick layer of dust. All the personal effects were gone. He could still _see_ the places where once familiar photos and keepsakes had been, even though he _knew_ they were no longer there.

He didn't know how long he stood there, back pressed up against the wall, tiredness and exhaustion pulling him down. The panic was still there, but muted. It was like he had entered an alternate reality.

Eventually, the familiar creaks of the house penetrated his mind and like a light turning on, he remembered why he had come.

 _To destroy the information._

He entered the kitchen, immediately set upon by memories of normal living. Before everything had gotten crazy. It had only been _two years ago_. But now, everything was wrong. He couldn't function in normal society. He couldn't survive like this. Now, everyone was _dead_.

The surfaces blurred in and out of focus as he searched for the things he needed.

 _"We know he left the information behind. What have you done with it?"_

Alex shook his head. Ian had been meticulous about his papers, meticulous enough that Alex _knew_ MI6 hadn't gotten them all. Something had to have been left behind, missed by MI6 when they cleared out Ian's home office the first time.

He had to do it. Had to get rid of them. For the good of everyone involved.

He finally found what he was looking for, though he hadn't known it until he saw it. Stuffed under the sink, in the furthest corner of the cupboard, there was a little lighter and a canister of lighter fluid. It would have to do. He grabbed a pan from underneath the sink as well, and upon finding that none of the inside faucets worked, he went outside and filled it up.

It wouldn't do any good to burn _everything_.

Then, he headed upstairs to Ian's office.

He had only been there a handful of times. Ian had almost never allowed him inside of it while he was alive, and it had been months before Alex had worked up the nerve to enter in. When he did, he hadn't found much of interest, expect for some old papers hidden between the bookcase and the wall. _Standard Ian operating procedure._ If it weren't for the questioning, he would have forgotten. He _had_ forgotten. Forgotten completely. That was impossible now.

The room was still as bare as ever, with the oak desk pressed up against the wall away from the window, the chair still toppled from where Alex had left it the last time he had been there— _months… how many months ago…_ He ignored it though, placing his tools down on the desk and began to hunt.

It was a task only impeded by the fact that his arm was still in a cast and the waves of dizziness that seemed to randomly appear and try to sap him of his strength. Not to mention the number of miles he had run, after no exercise for weeks. But he pressed on.

Papers in the false bottom of the desk.

Papers behind the mirror, tucked into the seams.

Papers slid into the baseboards under the window.

Papers that blended in with the tiny cracks of old wallpaper.

Papers.

Papers.

 _Papers._

They were everywhere.

Before he knew it, he had a stack piled up on the desk. Papers full of his uncle's life work.

 _Why are they so important?_ He didn't know. He skimmed through them—ignoring the part of his brain that was screaming at him to get moving—and recognized the code his uncle had taught him, years earlier. It had been on a seeming lark, when he was eight and they were traveling through Central America on their standard summer vacation trip. It was the simple process of replacing words here and there, with synonyms, antonyms, and homonyms. To the average reader, the paragraphs made sense, though disjointed slightly. To one that knew the code, it made even _more_ sense.

These seemingly harmless papers held the secrets of a dead man.

 _Safe houses._

 _Civilian contacts_

 _Terrorist contacts._

 _Agents. Pseudonyms._

 _The location of MI6 and MI5's research and training centers._

 _Passwords for self-destruct devices. Research._

Project Gemini. Gemini files. This was what they wanted. The key to _everything_. Blackmail for years of the secret projects of the British Government.

MI6 and MI5 couldn't overhaul their entire operation just because one man had died. Most of these, if not all of them, were still in full function. Still in use.

That information in the wrong hands would make it possible for someone to take down MI6 from the inside. Or to blackmail them into a corner.

 _Why had Ian made it so_ easy _?_

Horror set in, as Alex realized what he had just done. He had given them exactly what they had wanted. All the information in one place. He _hadn't_ known it before. He didn't _want_ to know the information.

His hands started trembling even worse, as he gathered the papers, his brain bursting with all of the new information, with all of the new secrets. The pile was impressive, but he hardly noticed it as he poured the lighter fluid liberally over it all. The room was spinning again and he squeezed his eyes shut as the flames burst to life in front of him.

He wanted to scream.

He had followed their wishes.

The room continued to swim in front of his eyes, as the flames danced. The papers were curling up, turning a black color as the information was leeched out of it. Gone forever.

Except he now had it all in his _head_.

He didn't _want_ it.

His hand gripped his hair, trying to calm the mental panic. It wasn't working. He backed up until he was pressed up against the wall, as far away from the incriminating evidence as possible.

 _Forget._

 _Forget._

 _Forget._

 _"Just tell me, Rider. Tell me one little thing…"_

The room continued to swim in its haziness, the flames continued to dance, and all Alex wanted was to forget.

 _"Hmm… pity."_

* * *

The room was choking him.

He couldn't breathe, but it was different from the drowning sensation.

 _Hah. You can tell the difference…?_

This was a rough burning at his throat, clawing its way down with every breath. Each breath became a wheeze, which rapidly turned into a cough. That only succeeded in making him suck down even more of the putrid air, creating a self-punishing cycle.

 _Breathe._

 _Cough._

 _Gasp._

 _Cough._

 _Breathe._

 _Repeat._

His eyes watered, as he tried to find air without the fumes, but it didn't exist.

He didn't know where he was…

Something rough pressed up against his face, while the other side felt like he had stayed out in the sun for too long.

 _Was he lying down…? Was that a floor beneath his cheek?_

He coughed again, but the struggles were becoming less and less effective.

He forced his eyes open and finally identified what was clogging his lungs, eyes, and nose.

 _Smoke_.

Thick, black smoke that seemed to cover the entire room in a choking layer. Even at the floor level, where he was lying, the smoke was thick, hot, and clogging. There _was_ no clear air. And even if he had felt that he had the strength to get up, there was no escape.

Flames leapt up around every corner of the room, some creeping ominously closer with every passing moment. He was sprawled in the middle of the room— _why? How did he get here…?_ The smoke and flames distorted the normal images making it impossible to discern his location. Or even _see_ if there were exits from the room. All he could see was fire.

 _"Don't want you to outlive your usefulness."_

He gasped for air, trying to use the corner of his shirt as a shield between himself and the smoke, but one arm felt unnaturally heavy and the other's coordination was almost shot. It only somewhat helped. The fabric was oddly damp— _why was he wet in the middle of a fire?_ —though it was quickly drying out. That little bit gave him some relief though.

He still coughed, trying to find air that wasn't tainted. He wished the pounding in his head would stop. That the room would stop spinning so wildly. That he could just _breathe_ again.

He didn't have the energy to get up.

His body trembled, whether or not he was trying to get up, shaking and spasming despite any attempts to conserve energy. Besides, it was marginally cooler on the floor, away from the worst of the flames and hot smoke scorching his airway.

He was going to die here.

Die in the midst of a fire.

 _"Keep this up, Rider, and we might just have to make drastic decisions."_

He didn't even know where _here_ was.

The flames crept closer—he could feel the heat slowly intensifying—as they consumed more and more of the available space. He knew they would come for him next.

Promising him a slow death.

Promising him a painful death.

He tried to curl into a small ball, a smaller target, but every movement sent the world around him off course. The sensation in his head pounding in tune to the steady staccato of his rapid heartbeat. His coughing picked up, filling his lungs with the hot, thick air.

The flames wouldn't be the one to kill him. It would be the smoke.

 _Someone_ was killing him.

 _Someone_ was going to succeed.

Then, a wall— _or was it a door?_ —burst in, sending crumbling fragments scattering across the room, all somehow missing him. That didn't stop him from screaming as he saw his own fiery and painful death flashing before him.

 _Crushed under a flaming wall._

He was gasping for air, choking on every lungful, because the scream had taken away his small reserve of air. Had taken away the little bit that kept him from inhaling too deeply. Now, he couldn't breathe.

Hands came from nowhere and grabbed him under the knees and shoulders. All he could see were the flames. Flames that were preventing him from living. They pulled him up into the smoke, choking off further attempts at breathing, and he tried to struggle. _He tried_. But his efforts were too weak. His energy was gone, drained away, the small reserve working tirelessly to keep him breathing. Choking. Coughing. Gasping.

Strange beings had him now, beings covered in rough material, bulky and intimidating.

He hardly noticed them.

The flames flashed by his face and he closed his eyes against the rushing sensation. The smoke curled around him, working its way into his lungs even though he was doing more coughing than breathing.

 _Maybe they'd put him out of his misery…_

 _"Are you going to cooperate now, hmm?"_

Then, sudden air. _Sharp. Fresh._ Still tainted by the smoke, but _different_. His trembling and spasms had picked up a different tempo, accentuated by the coughing. But the air was different. Cleaner—though still with the cloying taste of smoke. He gasped for it, trying to bring in as much as he could, yet finding that it was nearly impossible to keep any _in_ , as he was coughing so hard and so frequently. But it was _air_.

 _"I want you to think very carefully, Rider."_

 _His dying breaths._

Other voices entered the mix. Different voices all around him— _where did they come from?_ —all rose and fell, only occasionally breaking through into the realm of comprehension. The realm outside of his focused coughing and gasping. That was all he could focus on.

Then he was arching away from some surface as they placed him down on it. Tried to pull away as something interrupted the _clean_ air he was getting and replaced it with something that felt wrong. It felt _strange_ as it passed over his mouth and nose, pressing into his lungs, enforcing the coughing even more.

"—reason to believe he had returned—"

He tried to pull away from the hands that had him now.

His face hurt.

His body hurt.

His arm felt like a lead weight.

Whatever was touching him _hurt_ him.

Getting away was the only option.

"—very lucky—"

He squirmed, trying to get away from the hands, not once opening his eyes.

He had to _get away_.

It wasn't safe.

"—significant smoke inhalation—"

He kept coughing.

Then, something pried at his eyelids and a blinding light shone in. He tried to pull away.

 _Only chance._

"—pupils are blown—"

He kept struggling, not liking the light.

 _Have to do it._

 _Have to get away._

 _Never be safe._

He rolled off whatever surface they had placed him on, gasping and wheezing. Pain traveled up his left arm, sharp and distracting— _what had happened?_ —and then someone grabbed him before he could move further. He struggled again, throwing all of his energy into the fight.

Air didn't matter.

 _They can't have me!_

They would take him now.

They hadn't managed to kill him.

So, they would do _worse_.

He wanted to scream, but the coughing prevented that. Just like it prevented him fighting back. The energy and lack of oxygen slowly sapped the strength from his bones. He found himself gasping for breath and _they_ took advantage of his weakness, getting him back onto the strange surface. Replacing the mask.

"—shock. Getting violent—"

This time they didn't take any chances.

He twisted against their grip, sacrificed the last of his energy in a last ditch effort to get away—but they had used straps this time. Straps that restricted his movement. Made it impossible to get away. The shaking that he had forgotten about during the fight, picked up again, combining itself with his coughing, draining him of every ounce of energy he had, until he was empty. Finished.

"—get him sedate—"

He gasped for air, shaking against the grip of the restraints. Feeling like his heart was trying to claw its way out of his chest.

He knew those words.

He waited.

An unprecedented calmness washed through him, making his limbs feel even heavier. It was a calmness he didn't want.

It didn't help anything. It didn't stop anything.

Didn't change a single thing.

 _They_ had him.

* * *

 ** _A/N: Woohoo. Go Alex! *grins* I know, a little psychotic and perhaps a tad bit hard to read at parts, but things are changing dramatically. And we'll get the answers to quite a few questions in the next chapter, promise. I know that he seems soooo out of character, but trust me, it'll all make sense (well, some of it at least) in the next chapter._**

 ** _S.B.L_**


	10. Beyond

_**Disclaimer: Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 10: Beyond**_

He felt like he was swimming through muck. His thoughts were thick and didn't seem to move properly, and instead, he followed each and every pull right back into the dark spaces of his mind. He was only somewhat aware of the outside world, finding the calming gray areas a pleasant place to float, and never tried to go any further. Here, his mind was, for once, quiet.

Besides, it was only a matter of time before the darkness pulled him back under again.

The outside world didn't matter. He would rather forget it.

Forget the world of pain that was waiting for him.

Every time he had almost surfaced—far enough to know there was a surface, but not quite there—the overwhelming sensation of pain had shocked him. Shocked by the sheer madness and chaos that had encompassed his thoughts. Even then, it wasn't necessarily physical pain, but mental pain.

He didn't want that.

He preferred the safety of his gray space. The real world—because although this was cozy, he knew it wasn't actually real—seemed to be far, far away. However, the darker edges of darkness were staying away, and he was left to just drift. At peace with all.

"You've been at this for a while now, Alex."

He blinked. Or would have, had his eyes been open. He didn't need his eyes open to visualize the person who was speaking to him though. He knew the voices were figments of his imagination—and it almost hurt to think that—but they were their own form of comforting.

"They're going to get worried soon, you realize."

Oh, he had guessed as much—and since this was clearly a figment of his imagination, of course he knew that.

That didn't change the fact that he didn't want to risk the move. The few times he had risen through the gray had involved unimaginable pain, yelling, and the sensation of being completely trapped. He had only managed it twice, before retreating to save himself. There was now a numbed disconnect, as he drifted in the gray—neither sleeping nor in reality.

He couldn't risk it.

He would crumble at the wrong push.

"It should be better now. Not much is going on out there."

The thought of going and facing the pain terrified him. Perhaps that should have been his signal that his freedom was ending. The fear centers were coming back online, getting ready to push him out no matter what he did. What would happen if he were wrong? That the pain really was still there, just waiting for him to come back. The thought of fighting through it again was enough to make him want to pull away—but all those thoughts seemed to do was push him closer and closer.

He didn't want to deal with it.

Why couldn't everything just become magically better?

"—give him some time. The worst is over now."

Alex started—the foreign words and voice settling into his mind. They were not welcome words—though he had no idea the meaning, he knew what hearing those real voices meant. Voices meant that the gray was getting thin. Too thin.

Soon, he would no longer be safe within his own mind. He wouldn't be able to hide out much longer. He would be forced to face them.

As if following his train of thought, he felt himself inexplicably pulled into a memory. Ian was there—because of course, if Ian were there, that meant that nothing could go wrong.

"It's not fair." Alex pouted from his seat on the couch—his temporary living space. "I should be the one out there playing tonight. I was supposed to be the starter."

Ian stared down at his nephew, plaster on the boy's casted ankle still in the process of drying, and the petulant expression on his face. If the eight-year-old hadn't looked so serious, despite it all, it would have been amusing. "Well… I suppose you should have thought of that before you and Tom decided to test out your flying inventions."

Alex's brows furrowed, before settling into another pouty expression. "But still…"

Ian shook his head, smiling slightly. "Don't worry kiddo. There'll be other opportunities." He leaned over and ruffled a hand through his hair. It felt strangely real… "Just keep your head up and watch out for yourself. And don't do any more stupid things."

And then it was gone. Like a flash, the memory disappeared and Alex found himself being shoved toward the surface. He wasn't sure how long it took; the gray seemed to be both everlasting and brief. Then, he finally broke through the surface, clawing his way to life, drawing in lungfuls of fresh air, and gasping into the bright light.

He felt perfectly fine for one glorious moment, with no fears or thoughts pressing down on him. Then, he noticed the cloth half obscuring his vision. The firm mask covering his mouth and nose, pressing air toward his lungs.

The straps holding him down…

Memories, sensations, and fear flooded his system.

He hadn't come this far, only to be taken again.

He couldn't hold up again.

He wouldn't let them win.

He wasn't safe here…

"Alex!" Hands grasped his shoulders, and he tried to buck away, but couldn't, because he was still held in place. "Calm down. It's okay."

Alex gasped wildly, before the words sunk in. That wasn't the voice of a captor.

Had they gotten him too…?

"That's it. Calm down. It's okay. No one's going to hurt you." A hand ran down his arm, before griping his right hand lightly. "They just wanted to keep you from hurting yourself earlier. I'm sure as soon as they know you're awake, they'll let you free."

Alex let his body fall limp, just before a wave of coughing overtook him. Eventually, it stopped, and he looked over at his visitor, trying to make out the features. Ben Daniels. A face he hadn't seen in almost a year, smiled back at him, though cautiously.

His mind spun in a million directions, picking out the clues from his surroundings. A hospital. Hospital bed. Machinery. Not captive?

"Wha… wha's goin on?" The mask muffled his words—he doubted they would remove it if he asked—and his own exhaustion slurred the words.

"You're in St. Dominic's again. Mrs. Jones thought you might like to see a familiar, friendly face when you woke up."

Alex raised an eyebrow at that, hardly thinking that Mrs. Jones was looking out for what he would like. Case and point, something had gone wrong. He knew that much. But he wanted to know what. Talking felt like such a chore though…

Thankfully, Ben seemed to catch on. "From what I gather, after your abrupt departure from school—" He had what? Left school? "—you went back to your old house. I'm not exactly clear on the details, but somehow, you were trapped in the midst of the house burning down, several hours later. Since then, you've been here at St. Dominic's, going through withdrawals and suffering from a concussion."

Alex blinked, catching onto only one word. Withdrawals. But to what? How? "Wit…drawals?" The word seemed almost unintelligible to Alex, but Ben apparently knew exactly what he meant.

"I don't know much, they'll probably tell you the full story later. What I do know is that someone tampered with your painkillers." He sent a significant glance at Alex's arm. "They added a highly addictive psychotic into it that apparently messed with rational behavior and other such stuff." He waved his hand vaguely. "Mrs. Jones and your doctor know more about that than I do."

Alex reran the information through his head, matching it with what he knew had happened. Which, scarily, wasn't very much. The thought that someone had tampered with his medications was not a comforting one, yet it gave a potential reason for the overwhelming panic and paranoia both at school and with his guardians. And the sheer other-world-ness that had encompassed his thoughts. With the things that he did remember, he wasn't sure why it had seemed so terrifying before.

"You've been pretty sick for the past week—since the fire."

Alex blinked again. A week. It had been a week since coming back. Yet more hours that he wouldn't ever remember, wouldn't ever get back. He sighed, trying to find a more comfortable position, and only serving to remind himself of the restraints. "Why… held… stuck…" He couldn't quite find the words and the process of speaking was exhausting and hurt his throat.

"They had to restrain you when you started becoming self-destructive—part of the withdrawal process. That was also when Mrs. Jones called me in. They needed someone to stay with you, but you were too high a security risk to allow a non-agent unlimited, unsupervised access."

He listened between the lines, picking out the key information. Jones still thought him to be in danger then… and didn't want someone to take advantage of his altered state of mind. That was… almost comforting.

The corners of Ben's mouth perked up into a smile. "You have some minor burns on your face and arm. All the hairs on your arm were singed off—but don't worry, you still have your eyebrows."

Alex almost smiled in return, but he was getting tired again. He wasn't sure how long he was going to be able to stay awake. Though he wanted the restraints off…

Ben seemed comfortable next to him though.

Alex had a sudden horrifying realization and fumbled for the words. "Next… guardian… you?"

He liked Ben.

That was what worried him. So far, every agent that had taken him on absolutely hated him by the end of it. He had heard their words—demon, terror, violent—and he didn't want to lose the small shred of friendship he still had—not that he had seen Ben in months… Of course, his ex-guardians' perceptions might have been slightly tainted by the fact that he had physically harmed or threatened each of them—except for the latest.

"Who? Me?" Ben shook his head, though looked slightly wistful. "No. Mrs. Jones had a plan in place already. I would though, if I didn't have an assigned partner already."

It was a little comforting to know that someone had wanted him. Even if he were glad that it hadn't worked out… "Where… partner now?" He felt proud that he had finally strung two words together, without having to take a breath in between.

A full out grin spread across Ben's face. "Some Caribbean island. It's his honeymoon, so I've been sequestered doing paperwork for the past week."

Alex nodded. Made sense… He licked his lips, not liking the taste of the sterile air coming in the mask. He doubted they would take it away soon… "Water?"

"Sorry, no water until a nurse clears you. One should be coming soon—I let them know you were waking up."

Alex let out a heavy sigh. Apparently it was too heavy though, as it quickly turned into a coughing fit. Harsh. Raspy. It was different from pneumonia, because not only did the cough make his lungs hurt, but the burning feeling spread to his throat, nose, and mouth. He couldn't even cough properly, lying down as he was, so it took a while for it to die down to mere panting. Trying not to breathe in too deep and trigger another cough.

The nurse—as well as a doctor—walked in on his carefully controlled breathing, only pausing briefly to ask Ben how long he had been awake. Then, a bright light shone into his eyes, and Alex couldn't stop his automatic response to turn away.

The doctor merely chuckled. "You're definitely looking better today." The light returned—this seemed so familiar…—but this time, he couldn't avoid it. "Normal pupil response. That's the best we've seen so far. Tell me, young man, what's your name?"

Alex blinked. "Alex… Rider." He hoped they didn't discount him because he was having trouble stringing words together. He knew who he was.

The man merely hmmed, before pealing back the gauze on Alex's face. The sensation was tingly, but not overly painful, and Alex was reminded of Ben's statement. Burns. "Looking good there," the doctor said. "Do you remember what month it is?"

Alex thought for a moment. Really, the last couple of days had become quite the blur—over a week now, he supposed—and he wasn't sure how many of those he actually remembered… "April?"

"Right you are." There was some careful prodding of the skin around his brow and forehead, but the initial pain had died down. "Do you know the name of your friend here? I was told you may or may not."

Alex started to nod, but he aborted the gesture the moment he realized that a steady pounding had taken up residence in his head. "Ben… Daniels."

The doctor merely nodded, continuing with his examination. "We'll wait a couple more hours before adding more ointment, I think. How are you feeling right now?"

"Fine." It was an automatic response and one that earned him a patronizing looking from both the doctor and Ben. He rephrased himself. "Little dizzy… head… hurts… confused…" He tried to narrow down the incoming information, but it didn't work very well.

The doctor nodded. "To be expected. You had quite the knock to your head. Dizziness and some tenderness are perfectly normal responses. How about your breathing? You were coughing earlier…"

"Coughing hurts. Breathing… okay. Talking…" He shrugged, trying to put what he wanted to say into his gesture. They seemed to get it.

The man patted his shoulder. "You're doing great Alex."

Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't quite see what he was doing that was such a feat…

"Let's get you sitting up. We shouldn't have to worry about any relapses in the near future, but remember our previous agreement. No wandering."

Alex smiled slightly, before letting his eyes slide shut. Staying awake was exhausting and he had only been at it for a handful of minutes.

Hands undid the straps holding him down to the bed and a part of Alex's brain finally relaxed at the freedom. Between the doctor and nurse, it only took a few moments before he was comfortably sitting in a reclined position. His head felt too heavy to support at the moment, so they had foregone full sitting. As it was, the room was still spinning minutes later, and Alex hated to think of what it would be like if he had been trying to standup. For now, at least, they wouldn't have any problem with the no wandering rule.

A hand touched his arm and Alex realized that his eyes had slid shut again. He was exhausted.

"I know you don't like the masks, but you need to keep it on." The doctor gave him a stern gaze, as if trying to impart the essentiality of the equipment. "We'll reassess tomorrow, but for now, it's keeping your oxygen levels within the normal range. So unless you like the idea of being short on air, I recommend you keep it on."

Alex frowned, but didn't say anything. He would cooperate, for now at least.

The doctor finished examining the slight burns on his non-casted arm, before assuring him that exhaustion was quite normal and that the best cure was more sleep. He was given a stern order to spend the next couple of hours sleeping, and told that water, and perhaps food, would be brought after that time.

He didn't even wait for the doctor to finish up and take his leave, or ask for the bed to be let down again. He just drew the familiar heavy weight of his cast across his chest and let his eyes slide shut. Finally. He hardly noticed as someone pulled the sheets up around his shoulders before he was sinking back in the darkness.

* * *

His contact with Jones had been fleeting over the past several days and he wasn't exactly thrilled that his first stop after they finally released him from the hospital was to go directly to her office at the Royal & General.

They had kept him at the hospital for almost the entire week—between his continued recovery and the next step in rehabilitation for his hand it was almost understandable. As it was, they had removed some of the pins and replaced the cast with a removable splint. He had gone through several days of intensive physical therapy, trying to regain his range of motion, but so far, there had been little success. They told him it would only be a matter of time, but he knew better than to hope for perfection.

He was off the strong painkillers and antibiotics, and even the burns had more or less faded away, now only slightly pinker patches of skin that itched if they were irritated. All in all, he was doing remarkably well when compared with only a week earlier.

Ben escorted him up to the office, before waving a somewhat cheerful goodbye, leaving little doubt that it would be the last time Alex saw him for quite some time. It made him wonder, and somewhat fearful of, just who would be the next guardian. He doubted that Jones would finally get a clue and figure out that he really was much safer on his own—he wouldn't poison himself, for one.

He sighed, before knocking on the door and not even waiting for the call for entrance. He flopped down into the waiting chair—now that he was out of the sling, simple movements were much easier—and gave Jones the most petulant teenage glare he could muster up. It was old hat to the both of them, having been through far too many conferences like this over the past several months.

She stared at him over the desk, unblinkingly, taking in his still pale and ruffled appearance with a critical gaze. "That was quite a stunt you pulled, Alex."

He blinked at her. "What?" He should have known that her seeming denial that anything had occurred only meant that discussions were put off until they had less of an audience.

"You managed to get away from school, break into your old house—before we had figured out where you had run to—and survive it burning down around you. All while you were under the influence of quite the concoction of drugs."

He frowned. "You say that like it's my fault."

She shook her head. "No… your thinking showed patterns of high irrationality. You did none of that with conscious choice, yet you still did." He lips thinned into a straight line. "Ms. Harcourt was astonishingly unhelpful, but thankfully she was still within the building when it became clear that your medications had been tampered with." A fierce and oddly protective scowl came across her face. "She is now where she rightfully belongs, being interrogated by MI5 for treason and collusion against the country."

Alex blinked, and then nodded. His guardian, it seemed, had been in on it. Not surprising, since it had been her insistence—and force—that had caused him to take even higher dosages of the medications. And Jones still thought they were capable of protecting him…? They couldn't protect him from one of their own.

"That being said, I must ask. Why were you back at your old house? From what we've been able to gather, you went under your own power. But you knew we had cleared it out months ago. There was nothing left."

He opened his mouth to reply, but promptly closed it. His brows furrowed as he thought back through the hazy memories. He had known that he was missing memories, expected it even. But he was so sure he knew why he had gone back there. "I… I don't remember…" And he didn't. There was a sense of urgency, of having to do something, but it was completely indistinct.

Aside from the distinct terror that he had felt in the midst of his class—that had spurred him to run out of the building—he could remember very little from that day. Even the terror and confusion of waking up in the room with flames was little more than feelings. No thoughts. Few images. They even told him he had been conscious then, fighting against the rescuers.

But he remembered nothing. He clenched his jaw, thinking furiously and coming up with the same answer. Thoughts full of blankness.

Mrs. Jones let out a long sigh. "Nothing at all?"

"No, really. I… I don't." His hand reached up and gripped his hair, as if it would forcefully bring the memories back. "I mean… I went… I went for… some reason. It was important. And I… and I did something." He knew that. He had done something. But what was that something. What had he done that he thought so important, so vital? "Something important. I had to do it, because… because… and then I didn't… I didn't… I don't… Argh!" He tugged harder on his hair, trying desperately to focus his thoughts. "Why don't I remember?"

"Alex…"

He squeezed his eyes shut, pulling on his hair, searching for the memories. He knew they were there. Somewhere. Just waiting. "If it was so important then, why don't I remember now? Why?"

Then, hands were pulling his away from his hair, and he realized that Jones was in front of him, rather than behind her desk. "Alex, it's okay." Mrs. Jones being comforting…? Welcome to the Twilight Zone… "We believe that you were drugged with those intentions in mind. It was a powerful psychogenic that specifically targets memory formation and rational thinking. Not to mention, somewhere in there, you received quite a powerful blow to the head." The moment was over almost as soon as it had started, and she stepped away, surveying him with a cautious gaze. "Of course, that means we have to take this as a serious attempt on your life."

That had Alex snapping back to reality. "No." Jones was going to want to take over again.

She frowned at him. "Does the fact that your house was burned down while you were still inside it, not matter to you? Or the fact that someone has been drugging you for well over a month?"

"Does the fact that it was one of your agents doing the drugging not matter to you?"

She waved it away. "The fire was started with the sole purpose of killing you in the most drawn out way possible, after leaving you unconscious in one of the rooms. It wasn't an accident." The frown she gave him pinched her entire face. "You're not safe here anymore."

Alex swallowed. He had the sinking suspicion that he wasn't going to like the sound of her newest plan—and that it didn't involve him going off on his own. Ben had only vaguely hinted at knowing anything about it, only saying that he thought the situation would be better than previous ones.

Not that much improvement had to be made to accomplish that.

"You will not be returning to your school. We will make alternative arrangements so that you can continue your studies—and that includes making up the coursework from the past several weeks." Translate as coursework from the entire year… "Extenuating circumstances have made it obvious that you need more time to complete the work—you'll be working with a correspondence course. We will arrange that at your next residence."

He was almost afraid to ask. "My next residence?" Jones was making it clear. They were isolating him. He would have no contact with the outside world. This was just the first step—

"Your things are already packed. Your flight leaves this afternoon."

Alex's brain halted, mid thought. "Flight?" Where could they send him that would necessitate a flight? Was this like old times again…?

"Yes. An agent will escort you on your flight and your new guardian will meet you in the airport."

Alex scowled. "What, don't trust me to fly by myself?" Where were they sending him?

Mrs. Jones gave him an exasperated look. "Does the fact that you've been nearly killed in the last week not mean anything at all?"

He shrugged his shoulders, but silently admitted that it did. It disturbed him more than just a little that it had been so laughably easy for them to get to him. He didn't trust MI6 or their agents anymore though.

She looked at him long and hard for a moment, before frowning. "As I said, your guardian will meet you at the airport. They will work out the finer details of your schooling arrangements once you're on site."

Alex swallowed. He was almost afraid to ask now… but she had clearly been avoiding it. And since she was putting him on a flight… it meant that it was a decent distance away. Or just somewhere where it would be easier to fly to. "Just… where are you sending me?"

She gave him a smile that to anyone else would have looked inviting. Instead, it just looked foreboding. "It's oddly fitting, as it appears to be the only subject you're currently passing." She reached over her desk, carelessly picking up one of the ever present peppermints and popping it in her mouth. "You're going to Spain."

* * *

 _ **A/N: Wheeeeeeee! Finally. That, I think, was one of the hardest parts to write so far. Only partially crazy Alex is kind of hard to write. Nothing wants to come out right. But it's done now. So, read, review, you know the drill. The next chapter things might be slowing down a little, but I hope you it enjoy it just as much as I do! (Note: this was posted from my phone, so if there are any errors, please let me know, and I will fix it. )**_

 _ **S.B.L.**_


	11. Assignment

**_Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. (Are these actually necessary…?) Never have, never will._**

 ** _Chapter 11: Assignment_**

* * *

It would likely shape up to be one of the strangest assignments that they had ever been given. He just had a gut feeling about it. There was something _off_ about it.

It had been nearly a month since he had rejoined his unit and he couldn't have been happier to be back on base. They had been thrilled to have him back, in one piece, no less. Though there was still the fact that he had his moments of melancholy and mind-numbing panic when he woke up in a seemingly unfamiliar place, the therapist had cleared him for active duty. They claimed that the last of the healing would be best with his unit, getting back into the rhythm of things. It had. The consistency and familiarity of life on the base had brought things back into focus, back into reality.

Not that he had left base unaccompanied since. Whether that was by his own doing, or his unit watching his back, he wasn't sure. Some higher up had even gone so far as to ensure that on arrival back there had been someone waiting specifically for him. No one could say that the SAS didn't look out for their own.

The therapist had suggested taking it slowly the first several weeks back, but he was military. _SAS_. There wasn't time to take it slow. Not that there were very many exciting things to do on base aside from the usual parades and grunt work…

The superiors had thrown them into an intense retraining regimen, getting the unit back up to par. Or perhaps, they had known or suspected what was coming next. Not more than a week after finishing their refresher course, the captain of his unit came back with orders for a potentially long-term assignment—in which _he_ had been mentioned specifically.

Usually, such recognition was a red flag, when military intelligence starting taking note of specific SAS soldiers. More often than not, it meant eventual secondment—which this assignment technically was—and almost guaranteed that their SAS career wouldn't last much longer. Either they were killed in action during secondment or they switched permanently to MI5 or MI6—neither of which he viewed as desirable outcomes, for him or any of his unit. It was a pattern many of the seasoned veterans saw and recognized—and he himself had seen it several times.

Aside from those initial red flags though, this assignment had seemed different. The details and briefing had been caught up in so many seemingly complex explanations, none of which seemed to actually explain _anything_. All they knew for sure going into it was that they were operating out of sight from the Spanish government on Spanish soil—away from the familiarity and safety of their base and commanding officers—under some guise of witness protection.

Their assignment—because he didn't like to think in terms of _target_ —was arriving on the evening flight from London, in Madrid, and then taking another flight into one of the municipal airports, closer to where their safe house would be. There had been questions as to why the assignment wasn't being brought into the base proper, but their superiors had waved it off with explanations such as the base not being secure.

How they expected anywhere _not_ on the base to be more secure, he wasn't sure. In his opinion, being protected by a full-time guard and state of the art technology… _that_ was true protection. Not some middle of nowhere small town airport—where any stranger arriving would likely be cause for interest.

All those little hints and suspicions had paled in comparison to the final piece of news they were given. _He_ , Zebra or Nico, would recognize the assignment upon sighting. They assured him. And had promptly refused to give any more details or identifying characteristics. It was a complex protection detail, but they were starting off the first couple of days with very little information. Supposedly, more information would come during the drop off.

They had already been forced into signing a new and revised version of the OSA—Official Secrets Act—one that was more general and broader than what they had signed upon joining with the SAS. It seemed to cover all the bases—and it indicated that whoever the person they were protecting was had some hefty secrets or knowledge.

Though why they needed an entire unit for one person…

"Zebra, we're moving out."

He nodded his acknowledgement, threw the last of his personal belongings into his duffel, and joined the rest of his unit in packing the assigned car. It wasn't military issue—they couldn't be _that_ obvious about it—but it was more heavy duty than any civilian vehicle. He suspected that it probably even had bullet proofing…

They had already checked out the range of weapons they were allowed to carry off base—a slightly longer list, since it was sponsored by MI—along with a slew of listening devices, pressure triggers, and other gadgets that would make securing the safe house possible. Along with that, they had special stow areas in the car that would prevent their equipment from being flagged during the border crossing.

After giving the General a parting salute, they piled into the car and started their journey away from the base. It would take them at least three hours to get off the island and reach their safe house in Spain, and then an hour beyond that to reach the airport. Two would stay at the safe house and secure it, while Zebra and Cougar—the captain of the unit—went to pick up their assignment.

Nico wasn't sure what to expect, but he had a feeling that it wasn't going to be a run of the mill assignment. He could just feel the twists and turns that were waiting for them—their lack of knowledge and preparation being one of the biggest factors.

There wasn't anything he could do though…

* * *

It was a moderately warm day, for it being mid-April. The people of the medium sized city didn't even give them a second glance as they wove their way through the busy, but not quite crowded, airport. There were several other flights coming in around the same time—the only true busy time at the airport—and they were dressed as inconspicuously as possible. As far as anyone was concerned, they were two natives wandering through.

A specific portion of their mission briefing had included the need for _camouflage_. Not a single person in the unit had any of the regulation uniform pieces with them, nor were they to go about using their code names. They were to blend in as completely as possible—both while in public and in private.

This was definitely an assignment that had come from Military Intelligence—MI—and not _their_ superiors.

Thankfully, after having been involved in each other's lives for several years, both on and off base, they were all comfortable referring to and using their true identities. It would be strange to continue doing so, now that they were all in the mission mindset, but at the same time, it was for an undetermined amount of time. For all they knew, this assignment could last for weeks.

"You're sure you have no idea about this?" Bradley Cameron, the captain of the unit, asked for the umpteenth time. Even though they were in the midst of such a crowded area, they were still careful with their conversation.

Nico shook his head. "Not a clue," he muttered back. He had been turning it over in his head ever since they had gotten the assignment. The mission briefing had hinted at someone he knew… but he couldn't figure out who MI could have possibly connected with him. "Even for MI, it seems rather… _covert_."

Cameron frowned, gaze jumping around the crowd of people, searching. "And how are _they_ supposed to know that we are who we are?"

He shrugged. "More information?" _Information_. That was the true difference between MI and the SAS. The SAS were clear about what they expected, no surprises, if they could help it. MI, on the other hand, liked to play their cards close to their chest, giving out as little information as possible and sill expecting near miracles from their agents. He suspected that whoever was on the other side of the situation probably had about as much information as they did. It just seemed to be MI's _style_.

Cameron grunted, thoughts likely taking the same path, and continued his scanning. They had joined the mob around the receiving platform, filtering through the familiar shouts of greeting in Spanish, looking for one out of place word or gesture that might alert them to their assignment.

Nico hadn't noticed much out of the ordinary in the airport. As far as he could tell, it was a normal one for a medium sized city. There was the standard hustle and bustle of people—mainly young families and retired couples, as school was still in session—as they greeted their loved ones, found their rides, and struggled with their luggage. His eyes tracked one family as they met up with what seemed to be grandparents and other relatives, pushing the grandmother in a wheelchair. It was all perfectly normal.

He felt, rather than saw Cameron stiffen, before being nudged in the side. "Think we're looking for a suit?"

Nico redirected his gaze in the direction Cameron was looking, scanning the people coming through the doors. It didn't take long to pick out the suit. He stood out from the rest, but only if one knew what they were looking for. He could have easily passed as a businessman—but MI agents of a certain job description just had a _look_. That wasn't what made Nico stop in his tracks though. Rather, it was the person standing right next to him. _"Mierda!"_

 _No._

 _No. No._

 _No. No. No. No._

They couldn't possibly think that this was a good idea.

What was _he_ doing here?

Why now?

Cameron had stopped, hearing Nico's exclamation—that only caught a couple of disapproving glares—and glanced back at him with a suspicious gaze.

Nico didn't even notice him though. Instead, he was staring at the apparition that he had assumed he would never see again in his life. In fact, they _both_ probably would have been happy to never see each other again. So… he didn't understand just what part of MI thought that it was a _good idea_. He himself was hardly a month out of therapy for goodness sake! There was no way… no way that…

The suit had noticed them, homing in on them with a professional determination—but his companion had not. He blindly followed the man, not bothering to look up from his intense study of the floor, only taking the time to step around groups of families that were in his path. Perhaps not as unaware as he appeared…

Nico was sure that the blood had drained out of his face and Cameron was looking between the suit and Nico with confusion and a great deal of suspicion—but he hadn't recognized the tag-along to the suit. Hadn't yet picked him out from the crowd. Nico knew shouldn't be reacting this way—he should have expected something wild and outrageous. Now the covert wording all made sense, the reassurance that _he_ would recognize the target. The assignment. This _boy_.

A not so gentle shove in his back brought him back to the present, reminded him that he was in the middle of a public airport. He pulled on the soldier mask that he hadn't had to use in _months_. But he couldn't afford to break apart just because he saw someone that brought up a whole slew of memories he would rather forget.

They were past that, after all.

 _He_ still hadn't looked up.

"Bradley Cameron and Nicolas Kendrick?" The suit had a distinctly flat accent and the English seemed out of place in the Spanish atmosphere. It was clear that this was merely an assignment for him, nothing more.

"Yes." Cameron's eyes flicked over to the boy that was just outside of reaching distance from the suit. He still hadn't caught on. "You have more information for us?" He pitched his voice low, trying to blend in with the hum of the crowd. It was impossible to know who spoke English or understood at the least.

The suit pulled out a manila envelope that seemed to be nearly bursting at the seams. "This should explain a few things. We'll be in contact with more information. There are a couple of papers that need to be signed and returned this evening—Kendrick those are specifically for you."

Nico blinked. "Of course…" _What could those be?_ Just like he couldn't fathom why they had chosen his unit, he couldn't fathom why they were choosing _him_ specifically. Especially as he _was not_ the leader of the unit.

"This is Alex Rider." The suit nodded toward the teen and any hope that Nico had of the _boy_ being someone else was thrown out the window. He was the same. "He will be your charge until either the situation changes or your services are required elsewhere. We expect weekly updates—the protocols are included in the packet."

 _Services are required elsewhere…_ That seemed like an ominously long time. Undetermined. Indefinite. The mission briefing had been vague enough—but this seemed like it could go on for an eternity. Where was the boy's family in the midst of all this? It seemed strange that they would just _move_ him, with no promise of return. What had he _seen_? And perhaps most importantly, why now, so many weeks after the initial incident…?

"Good luck with Rider." The surname seemed rather callous considering the age and Nico almost flinched back from the memories of how that same name had been used as an insult. Derogatory. The boy hardly reacted to it though. A hand on his shoulder almost had him flinching away—Nico knew well enough to see the tensing of muscles and then the almost immediate suppression of the reflex—as the suit entered the space that Alex clearly didn't want anyone entering. "Behave, Rider. Jones doesn't want to clean up _another_ mess."

 _That_ got a reaction. Alex's head snapped up, with a vicious scowl on his face for the suit. The flare of temper, the flash of personality, all reminiscent of the behaviors Nico had witnessed before. It disappeared almost as soon as he registered the other two, as soon as he saw Nico. _Panic. Fear_. And then all trace of emotion disappeared completely, like wiping off a board, as he appeared to shut down. It was a transformation Nico had seen only a few times before, but he had never come across a mere _child_ who could pull it off so easily. The boy just seemed to withdraw into himself.

"Hmm… We will see." The suit nodded at them, before turning and seeming to melt into the crowd. He left them with nothing more than an envelope and a moody teenager.

Nico was at a complete loss.

Cameron seemed to be doing at least a _little_ better at pretending, though he seemed confused at the reaction toward Nico. Nico wasn't about to deal with that at the moment though. There were certainly a lot of things that he would have to explain—but in the midst of the airport wasn't the place for that.

"Do you need to get your things?" Cameron asked Alex, as if this were a completely normal exchange. Damage control, for anyone that was in the vicinity.

Alex shook his head, before pulling the backpack slung over his shoulder up a little. His other arm was hidden in the folds of his sweatshirt. Nico remembered the damage that _they_ had done to it, seemingly permanent and irreversible. Was it any better? It had been just over two months since… their rescue. Damage like that didn't heal quickly though. And the red tightness to the one side of his face surely hadn't been there before…

Cameron cleared his throat, clearly unsure of what to make of Nico's sudden inexplicable lack of input. They were a team and Nico was currently failing his job description. He couldn't though. He was trying to figure the teen out. Trying to figure out his situation.

"Let's go," Cameron said, giving little room for argument. Clearly, he had grown impatient of waiting for someone else to make a move. "We've got a bit of a drive." He started striding off through the crowd, hardly bothering to make sure that anyone followed him. Alex had gotten the message though and resumed his blindly following the lead, appearing to care only for the patch of floor space around himself. Nico followed behind, turning the newest happenings over in his head, trying to figure out how he was going to explain all the little details he had left out before. How he was going to explain to his unit—without reliving all the horrors. How he was going to rationalize MI's idea to place them all together…

He hadn't thought this would be a normal assignment, but… he had to give them props for surprising the hell out of him.

* * *

 ** _A/N: HEYY! LOOOOOKK! Nico is back! I really hope you like him as much as I do. I honestly feel a bit sorry for him. He's missing a lot of information… Many apologies for taking so long with this chapter (and that it's a bit short), life has been kicking me around a bit. No guarantees on how quickly the next one will come out (I will_** **try** ** _to do another, this weekend though)._**


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